


Busted and Blue

by n4455



Category: Captain America (Movies), Marvel Cinematic Universe
Genre: Abusive Parents, Alternate Universe - Trans, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Author is an actual trans person, Bucky Barnes Feels, Bucky Barnes Needs a Hug, Canon Compliant, Captain America: The First Avenger Compliant, First Kiss, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Friends to Lovers, Gender Dysphoria, Gender Identity, Growing Up Together, Hurt/Comfort, Internalized Transphobia, M/M, Period-Typical Homophobia, Period-Typical Transphobia, Pre-Canon, Pre-Captain America: The First Avenger, Pre-Serum Steve Rogers, Slow Burn, Steve Rogers Needs a Hug, Trans Bucky Barnes, Trans Character, Trans Male Character, Trans Steve Rogers, Transgender, Transitioning, Unhealthy Coping Mechanisms, Unhealthy Relationships, a little dead dove-y but not too bad, deadname use, deadnaming, mlm author, the fucking 1930s were ROUGH
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2018-01-22
Updated: 2018-07-25
Packaged: 2019-03-08 00:19:14
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 13
Words: 23,770
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/13446510
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/n4455/pseuds/n4455
Summary: “I couldn’t sleep, y’know,” He nervously picks at the hem of his cute little nightgown. The curve of his jaw, the line of his tense mouth, traced by soft cool light. “And I wanted to tell you somethin’.”In which Steve and Bucky are trans men.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Hey this is my shameless self-indulgence about Bucky and Steve being trans living in the 30's and 40's and I love it very very much.  
> Title from the Gorillaz song Busted and Blue (which was playing when I came out as trans). :-)  
> Just a heads up/content warning: the term 'transgender' wasn't coined until 1965, and any real social change towards trans people was WAYYYYYY in the future, so there's some language and attitudes in here that would be considered transphobic and outdated today, as well as some light & accidental deadnaming.  
> A big round of applause for Lia who beta-ed for me. Stan Lee is going to shit his adult diaper when he sees this. 
> 
> Let's GO!!!!!

 

 

**1931**

“Hey,” A small voice whispers. “Hey, Nelly, you awake?”

Helen Barnes groans deeply into the pillow and shuts his eyes tighter. “No. Go away.”

“ _Hey._ Get _up,_ dummy, I’m bein’ serious for once in my life, it must be a frickin’ national holiday.” Mary prods gently at his best friend’s side, who curls like a lump at the end of Sarah Rogers' pull-out.

“D’we get school off fer ‘at?” Nell murmurs, rolling over to face him. He clocks the red sunrise peeking through the curtains. “Wh’ time is it? What the hell you get me up for?”

“I couldn’t sleep, y’know,” He nervously picks at the hem of his cute little nightgown; the curve of his jaw, the line of his tense mouth, traced by soft cool light. “And I wanted to tell you somethin’.”

“That fuckin’ punk Jason pickin’ on you again? ‘Cause I swear to God--”

“No, no, it’s...not that.” Mary’s soft smile is fond. “I just--I needed to, um, y’know, tell you something.Important _._ ” It’s times like this, when Nell really gets a good look at him, that it’s so clear how pretty he is. Even now, tying himself into knots, he’s stunning. His hair is haloed by the morning light, hanging in gentle curls that start around his shoulders, shining like tinsel on Christmas. With his too-long bangs getting in his too-blue eyes, he’s like an angel. He’s beautiful. He’s glowing. He looks about as nervous as a goddamn sinner in church. Soft. Everything about Mary is soft. 

“Can it wait till--I mean, uh” Nell stops short, catching the look on Mary’s face. “Go on. I’m listening, sheesh.” He says cautiously, sitting up on his elbows to look him in the eye.

“I--I need you to not...not freak out on me.” He says in a voice that sets Nell on edge--where’s the feisty, stubborn, smart-ass, firecracker Mary Rogers that Nell knows and loves? “I just need you to know, now, that I’m--I’m still--I’m still gonna be your friend, and I’m still gonna be the same person, you know that right?”

“Of course, Mary. ‘Till we’re old and dried up and we smell like piss all the time and yell at kids to get off our lawn and we have, like, 20 cats, right?” Nelly offers a nervous smile, which Mary returns. _Please don’t be pregnant please don’t be pregnant please, God, don’t be pregnant, shit, my mama's never gonna let me over again oh, please, God--_

“Actually, I--I’m just gonna say it, okay? Okay. Alright. I’m gonna do it. Here we go.” Mary sighs gustily. The birds are waking up outside. The kitchen clock ticks for several loud seconds. Nell's got a vise in his throat clamped down on his windpipe. The whole world waits with bated breath for Mary to finish his fucking sentence.  _Oh, please, God, don’t be pregnant. Please, please let me have Mary._

“I--I’m--I feel--” He sighs and breathes obnoxiously again. Nell wonders hysterically if he should run and fetch the inhaler.

“I’m a boy. Like, a transvestite. Like in the paper.”

Nell can't help it, he pulls back with a funny feeling in his stomach. He feels like he just got slapped, feels like someone hooked him up to a car battery. Is Mary trying to be funny? Cause this is not funny. Nell feels weird. This whole thing is weird.  

Mary doesn’t even wait for him to respond, just barrels on. 

“There was this woman, right? But she was born a man, do you get that? Like she was born with, like, a _penis_ and everything and she wanted to get it off of her, ‘cause she just wanted to be like everybody else. So she went to Germany--she was Danish, I think--”

“Wait, wait, wait--do _you_ have a penis?” Nell interrupts. He thinks he'd have remembered that.

“No, no, like, the whole point of it is that I don’t, but, like, I _should_ have. Like God’s hand slipped or somethin’ and I was born in the wrong body. It’s kinda like my scoliosis, or like my asthma, it’s just _there,_ ever since I can remember, y’know?”

“Uh. Okay…” Nell manages, still processing. So Mary wants to have a penis? Like, a man's penis? On his body? That's...weird. At least nobody’s pregnant, right?

“And it’s just been-- It’s been so hard, Nell, pretending like it hasn’t been naggin’ at me for as long as I can remember, and I just--I just...I can’t lie to you, Nelly, you’re my best friend. You deserve the truth. And I can’t lie to myself anymore.” He slumps down on the pillow and hides his face. “Please don’t be mad.”

That makes Nell start. That Mary’d ever think that he’d be  _mad_ at him for confessing something so personal and... _serious,_ he feels humbled and honored and weirdly enough, still wired, even more than when Mary was leaving him in the dark. Like he said: car battery, meet Nell. It's all just...so strange. But not in a bad way. 

He stares at Mary. Mary stares back. Mary looks like he’s about to fuckin’ cry.

 “Hey, _hey_ , I’m not mad. Oh, jeez, don’t--aw, _shit_ , come here, you little asshole,” Nell opens his arms. Mary, sniffling and hiccuping, rolls over and rests his head on the swell of Nell’s breast, his larger frame curls in on Mary’s in response, hugging him to his chest. If it was anyone but Mary doin’ this, he’d have knocked them on their ass by now, but it’s okay, cause it’s Mary and it’s okay ‘cause he loves him. No matter what. Even if Mary’s...this...now.

“Hey, kid, you know I’d never...never--I just...I love you, you know that? Like, no matter what happens. I love you, kid,” Nell murmurs into his big blond head. “Cause I’m with ya till the end of the line, dummy. I mean it.”

Mary sniffles and looks at Nell through his stupidly long eyelashes. “I love you too, Nelly.”

They sit in silence like that, all curled up like that on that lumpy, moth-eaten pull-out couch, the kitchen clock ticking away, listening to their heartbeats (Mary’s, light and concerningly irregular; Nell’s, slow and steady). They stay quiet and still and calm, holding each other, neither one of them wanting to break the moment, even though its absolute-ass-crack-of-dawn early and they’re both exhausted but too wired to fall asleep and it’s too hot under the covers so they’re sweating but they just wanna stay close, cause if they don’t move, maybe they can just stay here forever, just the sounds of Mary’s relieved crying muffled on Nell’s sleep shirt and Nell’s quiet “Sh-shh-shh, oh, it’s gonna be alright, kid, it’s okay, shh, yeah, it’s--”

“Can you--could you please, um...can you call me Steve?”

“Sure thing, Steve.”

He looks up at him with a big watery smile. Steve, it is.

Steve tucks his head against Nell’s chest again.“Mary just makes me feel weird. Like, sick. That’s how it feels. Like you’re gonna throw up or explode cause it’s just, like, _not you._ Like your skin’s on backward and it’s just... _wrong_ , y’know?” His words are slow and sloppy. He’s falling asleep.

Nell waits until he’s out cold to place a dry kiss on the top of Steve’s head.

 

“Yeah," Nell whispers, eyes wide open. "Yeah, I think I do.” 

 


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It took him a couple days to work up the nerve, but once he gets the idea in his head, it’s like a dog with a bone, y’know? He can’t stop thinking about it.  
> So, seeking evidence, he creeps into his mother’s room while she’s at work, and cracks open his father’s closet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> content warning for homophobic slurs and light/accidental transphobia ;/

  

 

It’s an experiment, really. Like a scientist making up an element or a crazy new species or something. Yeah. Just like a scientist. Nell feels like he should be holding a beaker. Maybe that would make him feel less scared.

When he’d got home after that sleepover, he had a million and one questions for Steve, but...you couldn’t just  _ask_ that stuff. Like, how come Steve’s a boy now if he was a girl and liked girl things before? How do you even _become_ a boy? Is Steve just like, a lesbian? How is Steve gonna have kids? Is he still gonna get married to a boy? How’s that work, two boys married? Who’s the one who picks up the dirty socks? Questions like that. So, like any good scientist, he made a hypothesis. If you’re a girl, but you want to be a boy--no, wait, if you _are_ a boy secretly (even though you never mentioned it to your _best friend in the whole world_ )--so if you’re a boy but you were born a girl, you tell your best friend and then you...what? Wear boy’s clothes? That just sounds like a bulldyker.

These things get so fucking jumbled in his head that he can’t think anymore. He needed proof. Evidence. Hard-hitting evidence. That girls can get dressed up in suits and become boys, or that a boy can take a train to Germany and come back as a girl. It took him a couple days to work up the nerve, but once he gets the idea in his head, it’s like a dog with a bone, y’know? He can’t stop thinking about it.

So, seeking evidence, he creeps into his mother’s room while she’s at work and cracks open his father’s closet. His beige work clothes are neatly folded, the shabby brown shoes and worn-out belt resting on top. Plaid, white, striped, and gray button-ups hang on the rack, untouched. Suspenders drape on a hook on the door, next to a caddy full of ties and handkerchiefs. They’re all just how he left them before he--before he passed, it feels eerie, almost.

His mother stores old photo albums and corny knick-knacks on some of the shelves, but that’s it. She never lets him within a mile of the thing, thinking that Nell's gonna ruin it like a reckless child. But she's working late, so Nell's gonna be as reckless as he wants. He reaches out to touch one of the soft shirts. It smells like cologne and tobacco and his dad's aftershave. His eyes feel hot and prickly, so he puts it away.

Nell decides on a faded button up, a cap to hide his short hair in, a pair of straight-leg slacks, a brown tie, which he abandons after discovering how fucking hard tying a tie is, and a tightly-cinched belt. He decides to complete the look by digging through his mother’s underwear drawer (gross) and finding one of those old flapper brassieres from when she was young, the type that’s marketed like ‘ooh, look at me, my body looks like a sexy plank of plywood, doesn’t it make you wanna go dancing, old sport?’ or whatever. He was eight years old and also dirt poor back then so that kinda took the ‘roaring’ out of the twenties. Anyway, it does the trick, threadbare as it is, it shaved off a significant amount of his bust, and when coupled with the shirt he picked out, it looks like there’s almost nothing there at all. It’s strange and tight and restricting, but...comforting, somehow. Like a tight hug. He turns around to look in the mirror.

What he sees in the mirror is...different. Scary. It’s the same as always, but it’s also... _not._ It’s him but he’s so--he’s so--it startles a laugh out of him: who’d have thought he’d look so much like his father? It’s like...he’s seeing everything for the first time: the curve of his jaw, the cupid’s bow, the dark, strong eyebrows, and the _nose,_ he knew there was a likeness, but good Lord! It’s like looking at an old photograph!

It’s not like he’s never been told he looks like his mother, but it’s just--it’s so _clear_ , right there on his face, her _eyes_ staring back at him, who he is. Of course he’s looked in the mirror before--what type of question is that?--but he’d only ever seen the _lines_ of his face--he remembers Steve telling him:

 _“See, Nelly, you gotta--when you’re sketchin’ it out, you gotta draw the rough lines first, yeah, there you go...and_ _then_ _you shade the rest in and do lighting and shadows and all ‘at, so you can see the whole picture. Neat, right?”_

It’s like up until this point he was just the basic shapes, recognizable separately, but together they were completely...blank, now he looked, really _l_ _ooked,_ and he could see the whole picture. He can see his mother: the shape and color of his eyes, in his low, wide-set cheekbones...how had he never noticed? How had he never _recognized_ …?

The clothes look silly on him, he admits. They’re twenty sizes too big and not cut for his figure, but he...it’s... _wow. Jiminy-fuckin’-cricket._ He’s--he’s--it's all so… _overwhelming._ His heart’s hammering in his chest. He feels like he might puke. He needs to stop staring at the kid--the _boy (the BOY! Oh my God!)--_ in the mirror.

He slumps against the wall and puts his head between his knees. At least he understands Steve now. Good God, Jesus, does he ever. Why doesn’t _everyone_ do this? It’s incredible. It’s heart-stopping. It’s... _eye-opening._ Is this what it’s like for everybody? He feels like he just got hit by a train or something, he sits on the floor and tries to catch his breath. Jesus. Jesus _Christ._ He looks up at the mirror one last time, savoring the feeling, the strange and familiar flicker in his chest. It’s probably just the clothes, right? The sight of them must be making him overly sentimental.

He undresses quickly and puts everything exactly how he found it (careful not to leave tracks in the dust) and redresses in the clothes he was wearing before: a scratchy blue dress with white buttons and his dirty black Mary Janes. He looks in the mirror again, seeing only the shapes, the abstract lines of it...but the image of that face, _his_ face, burns behind his eyes. His eyes linger on the binding brassiere, untouched and likely forgotten, shoved in the back of the drawer for years. His fingers brush over the white boning, the elastic, the lace lining the top.

 

He nicks it. One small piece of himself. One small victory.

 

 


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> So there they are, Steve perched on a kitchen stool, hands folded primly on his skirted thighs, Nell behind him staring at their reflections in the bathroom mirror. Steve, glaring determinedly, and him, left holding the scissors.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> buckle up kiddos we've got the haircut scene coming up with a side of piping hot Nell Angst.  
> I think I'm gonna stick with short little snapshot chapters and keep this fic updated quickly cause i have a Whole Ass Storyline in mind, so get ready these boys are in for a wild (yet canon-compliant) ride

 

 

“Hey Nelly?” Steve calls from the kitchen. School bags and scuffed black shoes lay slumped against the wall. Nell lounges on a dusty living room floor, his chin resting in his palms, perched above a beat-up copy of _Dick & Jane. _

“Y’ah?” He says around the pencil in his mouth.

“Y’think...y’think you could cut my hair today? It’s just, it’s getting in my eyes all the time, and mom’s not gonna be back until late, so...”

“Aw, you know I’m no good at that stuff, Stevie, I’d probably chop your ear off. Can’t we just wait for her to get back?”

Steve pokes his head around the corner, sweeping his bangs out of his eyes, making a pointed face. It _is_ getting pretty long…

“She’s not gonna be home until, like, _ten,_ Nell. She’d be too tired. And you won’t chop my ear off, silly. I believe in you.” He said the last part so earnestly it makes Nell look away, feeling warm and fluttery and weird.

“Guh. Fine, you little jerk. But don’t blame me if you come out of it looking like a dog’s butt or somethin’.” It’s a dumb joke, but it makes Steve laugh, so. Worth it.

So there they are, Steve perched on a kitchen stool, hands folded primly on his skirted thighs, Nell behind him staring at their reflections in the bathroom mirror. Steve, glaring determinedly, and him, left holding the scissors.

Something finally clicks.

“Hey. _Hey._ How short we talkin’ here, big guy?”

Steve looks sheepishly at him. He _planned_ this, the little asshole.

“Oh. Y’know. Shorter than you have yours.” Trying to pull the casual act. He sounds like he might fucking explode if Nell doesn’t do this for him.

Nell wears his thick hair in a frizzy bob, stopping just around his chin. His mom had kind of a Clara Bow moment, so she cuts it like that. He never really cared either way, but it doesn’t mean he’s oblivious to the teasing.

“Really? Mine’s is pretty short, Stevie. People’ll...talk.”

“Let ‘em. I don’t care. I just--I just want all this--” He grabs a fistful of his hair.“-- _off_.”

Nell's quiet for a moment, deliberating. 

"Okay."

"Okay, as in you'll do it? Really?"

"Okay as in I'll do whatever it takes for you to stop looking at me like that." He teases. Steve grins.

They stand there for a second.

“So I just...?”

“Yeah, go for it.” Steve steels himself. The scissors hover, uncertain.

The first crisp _snip_ just over his left ear is like a dam breaking. They let out a breath sharply. No turning back now.

“Oh-ho-ho, your mother’s gonna fuckin’ kill me,” Nell breathes. He clips a long, glossy piece at Steve’s temple. “ And then _my_ mother’s gonna hear about this and _she’s_ gonna kill me dead too.”

Steve’s laugh bounces off the bathroom tile. It’s like music. “Pretty sure you can’t die twice, Nell.”

“Okay, but point is, we’re both dead when she comes home. How’d you feel about wearing a hat for a couple years until this grows out again?”

“I’ll think about it.” Steve replies, smiling at his reflection as his hair is snipped away, one section at a time. Nell stares at the sea of shiny blonde hair pooling beneath them.

_He must feel so free_ , Nell thinks wistfully. And just for a second, for a razor’s edge of a moment, he’s eclipsed with the sudden image of himself in Steve’s place. Him, his dark hair cropped short, smiling so wide and so bright it must hurt, that he must feel so handsome. His stomach zings hotly at the thought. He shouldn’t think that way. This is for Steve. This is Steve’s day.

He looks into Steve’s glowing reflection. He’s so proud. They’ll be given hell for it, sure, but he’s so proud of him. He’s so, so, so _proud._

_SNNNIP--!_

 

By the end, Steve’s head kinda looked like a freshly-sheared lamb, but that’s okay, because _he fucking loved it_. He wouldn’t shut up about how good it felt, how light it was, rubbing his hands all over the back just to feel the prickly short hairs there. He did it like, at least thirty times before Nell told him to stop being a fucking weirdo and get back to his homework.

A couple hours and several arithmetic sheets later, they’re bored as all hell. They try to entertain themselves: play blackjack, make Ovaltine on the stove, they lie around on the floor and try to play Truth or Dare, but they already know all each other’s secrets, so that’s kinda a bust. Nell’s the one who rolls over and proposes Dare or Dare, which is how Steve ends up tongue-first sprawled the floor (Nell laughing his ass off), after he was dared to lick the doorknob and lost his balance. Steve just looked up with his little face contorted in such betrayal it makes them both crack up again, laughing and laughing into the still air of the dusty, cozy, perfect apartment.

They laugh and laugh and laugh until Steve’s gasping for breath and Nell has to run to get the inhaler, he rounds the corner--

Steve’s mother is standing in the doorway, her stout hand still clutching the knob, keys forgotten. Gaping at Steve.

The silence rings for a long, long moment, both of them frozen in place.

Steve, the gutsy little punk, breaks it first:

“You’re home early.” He remarks faintly. She’s staring daggers at him. No, this is worse than that. She’s glaring, like, battleaxes at him. Swords, maybe. Shit.

“Mama--”

Ms. Rogers holds her hand up in silence. Then she points to Nell.

“You. Get _out_.” She grits through clenched teeth.

Nell looks at Steve. Steve glares at the floor.  

Nell leaves.

 

His house is silent and dark when he gets back, and he takes his time putting away his school bag by the door and toeing off his shoes. He can smell that mother waited up for him tonight--she’s sitting by the telephone, sucking on her cigarette. Not looking at him.

“So, Sarah Rogers rang me tonight.” She says. Her voice is gravelly and thick. The kitchen light clings to her skull, licking up her hard-clenched jaw, her temples, her prominent cheekbone, her tightly-pulled hairline. She takes another drag, and from the light of it he can see that hard, weary look in her eyes; that look that’s like a house with dark windows, that look that’s like ice. Been looking that way a lot more ever since Daddy passed. She puts out her cig in the tray.

“So, Sarah Rogers rang me, and she says to me, she says you...you cut her girl’s hair tonight.” Had a few drinks too, if the slight sloppiness of her words are anything to go by--better tread lightly. “Says she’s got Mary over there, over there looking like someone attacked her in a dark alley with a pair of scissors.”

“Oh, it wasn’t--”

“ _No, you listen to me, girly,”_ She seethes, and she grips his forearm hard, her long nails bite hard into his soft wrist. He feels so cold. “You’re gonna go over there tomorrow and you’re going to _apologize,_ you hear me? _Huh? You hearin’ me?”_ His arm hurts with how tight she’s got him. Her eyes are wide and gray and he can feel them boring straight through his head. He can’t look at her. It’s like staring into the sun.

“Yeah, I--I hear you. Apologize to--to Mary and her Ma. Done.”

She doesn’t let go.

“So, can I…?” He says, pointing his bedroom. _Can I get the fuck out of here so I can stop pretending like this isn’t the worst thing ever? Please?_

She stares with her big blank eyes for a long, long second, then:

“Yeah. Get.”

 

Nell’s halfway to his room when he hears her call:

“You girls--you kids...you’re not...not foolin’ around or nothin’?”

Silence.

“Ma, it ain’t--it ain’t like that, you know that. We...we ain’t queers.” Nell says, once he’s sure his voice will come out steady.

His mother grunts in acknowledgment and his shoulders drop from around his ears.

“‘Kay, g’night, Ma. Love you.”

“Yeah, love you, kid. Go to bed.”

He crawls into bed and just cries and cries and cries.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> 1 like = 1 prayer 4 nell


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Steve and Nell talk it out

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> warnings for mentions of past and present abuse :(

 

  

They see each other at school the next day, but it’s...weird. It’s _tense,_ even. Steve doesn’t talk to him in class as much, and when he does, he’s quiet and shifty-eyed and distracted and nothing like himself.

Nell doesn’t push it, for fear of Steve pulling away completely, so he gives him space. He gives him space all through arithmetic, through spelling practice, he leaves him alone all through recess  _and_ lunch and Steve’s still acting strange.

When they go outside that afternoon to beat the dust from the class chalkboard erasers, he asks him.

“So...are you okay? You’ve been actin’ funny.”

“Huh? Oh. Yeah, I’m fine.”

They don’t talk for a moment, just the thwack of the erasers smacking against the pavement.

“Are you sure? Cause--”

“I’m fine, okay? I’m fine.” Steve interrupts. He slaps one of the erasers in a way that says I’m absolutely totally not fine. Nell sets down the eraser and turns to face him.

“Hey. No. Don’t give me that. You tell me what’s goin’ on, you tell me what’s goin’ on _right now,_ you big jerk. Care about you.” The last part is soft-edged and earnest and far more vulnerable than Nell ever intended it to come out. Yikes, shit, better backpedal. “I--I mean, you--you’re very important to lots of people, and we, um, we just hate seeing you...upset, and, uh, we...we want you to be happy, so could you please tell me what’s wrong? Did I do something?”

Steve frowns at the concrete. Nell looks away, allowing him the chance to gather his thoughts.

The warm afternoon light spills through the trees, turning the chain link fences into gold. A nice breeze plays with the hairs on the back of Nell’s neck, the hem of his uniform skirt. It’s too nice of a day to be stuck up in that stuffy classroom.

The light shifts and catches on Steve’s choppy flyaways like a halo. He’s got on a big tacky pink headband, obviously his mother’s doing, that tries valiantly to soften the look. He looks like an adorable, scowling, blond Minnie Mouse. It makes Nell smile, but Steve doesn’t see it.

“My...my mom said...she said mean things about you,” Steve says quietly. “Like, that you’re gonna--that you’re a bad influence. She--she was real mad.”

“Oh.” Nell looks at the floor. His eyes feel hot; bad influence, huh? She's probably right--Steve was always the goody-two-shoes. “I’m...sorry that you...that you feel that way. I’m sorry, Stevie. This is all my fault.”

“No! No, Nelly no. I’m sorry. It’s not even like that, I just--I didn’t want you to have to deal with all this on top of...everything else. I’m the one who made you--who made you cut my hair, a--and, like, made your mom get mad at you and--I’m just, Nelly, _look at your arm. That’s my fault._ ” Nell tugs his uniform sleeve and looks away self-consciously. Shit.

“No, hey, hey, Stevie, don’t--It’s not your fault, I swear, I was just--just mouthing off. You know me.” He offers a self-deprecating shrug. “Can’t keep a lid on it to save my life, huh?”

“No! I--you! You shouldn’t have to--to _defend_ me, it’s just--” Steve sucks in a shuddery breath. “I don’t want you to have to put up with my--with all this. I thought would be better if I wasn’t bothering you all the time. I’m--I’m so dumb, I should just-- I'm sorry.”

“Oh, Steve, don’t say that. C’mon, you...you know I’d rather be bothered by you than anybody else. I _love_ being bothered by you, in fact, I actively seek you out in order for you to bother me. Really.”

Steve’s smile has a wobbly quality Nell usually associates with impending water-works. Oh, Jesus.

“Oh, hey, shh, c’mere ya sap. Yeah, it’s alright, hey, s’okay. I forgive you already, stop crying, you big baby.” Nell coos fondly. He threads their bodies together in a loose hug. “I ain’t never gonna be sick of you, kid. Trust me.”

Steve laughs into his uniform shirt. “I’m _not_ cr--crying, you jerk.” He blubbers nasally. Nell holds him tighter in response. Steve’s always been too grown up for how old he is. How old they are.

“Punk.”

“Dork.”

“Mook.”

“Sucker.”

“Deadbeat.”

“Greaseball.”

“Twit.”

“Airhead.”

“Cad.”

“Goon.”

Nell’s the one who caves first, laughing into Steve’s hair. He smells so good, like apples and laundry and sunshine and Beechies peppermint gum. Nell feels weird thinking like that. He pushes the thought away.

“She--my mom--uh...she didn’t--that wasn’t the only thing she said...about you and me,” He says quietly. Nell’s stomach does a nervous little flip. “She said, some things about...about queers, inverts, y’know? And all I could think about when she was sayin’ it, was...what about me? I know that might be selfish, but...if she’d say that stuff about them, what would she say if she knew about _me_? What’s she gonna do if she finds out?” His eyes are wide and red and puffy and staring up at him. Nell wants to hold him and never ever, ever, ever let go.

“Hey, hey, Steve, don’t be like that, I’m--I’m sure it’ll turn out alright.” He tries.

“You--don’t say that. You don’t know what she could do. She could...she could do some stuff.” Steve looks away again. So far Nell’s O for two on comforting Steve.

“If she tries anything on you...if anyone did, you know what I’d do. You’d know I’d never let her hurt you, right? Even if she tried it, you’ll always have me to fall back on. You know that.” Nell offers him a quick squeeze on the shoulder. “C’mon. Let’s get back to class.”  Steve gives him a watery smile.

Nell grins and puts his arm around him as they walk. “Hey, what’s with you crying all the time? Should I just have a hankie on hand so I don’t have to keep cleaning your snot out of everything I own?”

Steve laughs and shoves him lightly. “Oh, shut _up._ ”

Nell rubs a hand in circles on his back. They walk in silence, letting the sinking sun’s warmth wash over them, the shadow they cast stretches long and black on the pavement.

“Y’know it’s no use blaming yourself for--for what happened. It ain’t nothin’. Not even bad this time, only hurts a little, see?” Wasn’t anything compared to--to what Steve had gone through with his dad, Hell, what he still goes through. What they both do. Nell picks plenty fights with kids his own age, what’s one more bruise?

“I...I don’t want you to--There shouldn’t _be_ a ‘this time’. There shouldn’t be an _any_ time. I don’t...I don’t want to see you hurtin’, Nell. Ever. You promise me--you promise me you tell me when bad things happen. You promise you tell me, Nelly.”

 

“Yeah, Steve,” He lies. “I promise.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> im so so so happy you guys have been liking the story so far! i'm so excited to share this story with yall! expect frequent updates!!


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nell thinks some stuff over.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> first off? I'm sorry, I didn't update as frequently as I said. I have schoolwork and I'm a big sleepy dummy who forgot to write.  
> Your comments & kudos literally are my life force and y'all dropping so many on the last couple chapters motivates me so much! I don't have much confidence in my writing and it's tough to see past that a lot of the time, so I get nervous and end up not posting things fast.  
> That being said, get ready for an extra short one that was really hard to write because I'm a little baby and this stuff hits way too close to home, but I WILL OVERCOME!!!!!!!  
> content warning for detailing dysphoria, homophobic slurs, and some possibly dysphoria-inducing topics. Nell is trying really hard to understand gender and sexuality and where he fits into that. :(

 

 

The thing is, Nell _knows_ that he likes Steve. But it feels...weird...when he thinks that stuff about him. Nell lays on the living room floor, a thick slab of buttery light pouring in from the tiny kitchen window of his subdivision, savoring the feeling of quiet calm that only comes in the rare moments he's alone. He watches the dust swirl and tremble in the air like gold flakes, thinking hard. 

It’s just--Steve was beautiful when he used to be Mary: the shiny blond hair and the whole Good Catholic Girl thing really did it for Nell, but the attraction had always been shallower somehow. Like, it felt funny. Abstract. He just wasn’t sure how he fit into a relationship like that, so he ignored it for the most part.

Nell’s not going to pretend that he doesn’t notice Steve’s body--but it’s been thoroughly explained that the outsides _do not match the insides_ many, many times--and Nell knows that Steve is a boy, and he respects that to the moon and back, but...

Does that make him a dyker? Or straight? Nell doesn’t _feel_ like a dyker. But he knows he’s not straight since he’s had crushes on Mary _and_ Steve, but where does that leave him? He feels weird even thinking about it--it’s not that he has a problem with girls kissing on girls, but thinking of himself as one is just strange somehow. Wrong, somehow, in a way he can't explain.

And it’s not that he’s uninterested in men, it’s just that most of the boys that come around pick on Steve, but that’s just how boys are; pull on a cute thing’s pigtails to get her attention, right? But Steve doesn’t have pigtails to pull no more, so they just call him a dyke and spit at his feet. Cause if there’s a way to win someone’s heart, it’s that, huh? Hate what you can’t have? So no, he hasn’t had a lot of experience with boys. Boys besides Steve.

His head spinning, Nell runs his hands through his unwashed hair. He glances at the clock, it’s still too early to shower, but nobody else is home right now and he feels gross, so fuck it. He pads on socked feet to the tiny kitchen-slash-bathroom, sliding a little on the cracked, cold tile. Nell sighs into the mirror above the sink and gets busy shucking off his clothes.

Once Nell gets down to just his socks and underwear, he turns to face himself again. It’s not a bad view or anything--he’s always had a pretty body, it’s just... _weird_ now, looking at it. After seeing what could’ve been. His stomach twists with that same sharp pang from before. It’s--its like...like looking at someone else.

He twists to find a better angle: his hips are full and wide, with matching strong shoulders which he takes a petty, selfish kind of pride in. He feels a little queasy looking at his thighs, so he has to stop.

He strips the rest down and steps into the shower, turning over the questions again. Going over the facts. Y’know when you’ve bit your cheek and you can’t stop running your tongue over it? That.

He knows he’s attracted to Steve. He knows Steve has boobs and he likes said boobs a lot. He knows that Steve is a boy and that he finds him both handsome _and_ beautiful at the same time. He scrubs the white bar of soap into his hair. He knows he is not a lesbian, but that’s kinda up in the air. He knows he feels weird being naked right now and thinking about Steve. Steve with his round blue eyes and his soft pink mouth and his million-mile eyelashes. Steve who looks so pretty blushing. Steve who’d look so much prettier blushing _for him--_

That, of course, is when the steady thrum of the warm tap craps out, sending a shock of icy water splashing over the crown of Nell’s head. He squawks and cringes, fingers scrabbling against the tile wall, searching for the taps, his face hot and buzzing with shame.

After a harrowing battle with the control knobs, Nell leans his head against the tile wall and lets out a tired, wheezy laugh. _Touche._  Good God.

This is just too fucking perfect, too fucking pointed not to notice, and Nell cracks up all over again as he gets out of the shower.

His eyes catch on the half-fogged mirror and his smile stutters and withers. He sighs. Fuck this. Fuck it all.

His hair, black with wet, is plastered to his face, to the back of his neck, to the line of his shoulders. The dingy light pales him, brings the shadows from around his eyes, around his wide, twisted, tense mouth. He can’t bring himself to look at--at the rest.  He redresses quickly, trying hard not to notice the fabric touching the skin of his--touching his skin. Period.  He gets into bed and puts his head under the pillows. Its still light out.

Rationally, Nell knows that he isn’t like everybody else. _Rationally,_ he knows that eventually, he’s going to deal with whatever these feelings are, cause he’s pretty sure other girls can stand to look at themselves in the mirror for longer than twenty seconds. But that doesn’t mean there’s a snowball’s fucking chance in Hell he’s gonna admit--admit that he’s different, that he’s not _normal_ anymore. He thrashes in the sheets, and his face burns with anger, with shame, with the injustice of it all.

Nell lies on his bed, staring up at the ceiling. Turning over the questions. Going over the facts.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I'm gonna update as soon as I can with more chapters, but I just have to slog through a lot of exposition to get to The Big Story Feelings. Stay with me, babes.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some good things happen. Some bad things happen.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I should consider renaming this to 'The Forties Really Sucked' or 'It's Just Gonna Get Worse From Here'. I think that would be more accurate. But get ready for a little break in the action for some sweetness and then right back into the Teenage Bucky Angst.

 

 

“Be careful!” Nell hisses, watching Steve haul himself up, up, up into the highest branches of the tree, up into the hazy-warm afternoon sky. They’ve been meeting at the park between their houses after school. Nell’s not allowed at Steve’s house anymore, and Steve’s not allowed at his, so they make it work.  

“Don’t be such a spoilsport, Nelly. C’mon, get up here. It’s a nice view.” Steve calls over his shoulder, grabbing one that couldn’t be bigger than his skinny wrist.

Nell grumbles something like  _keep your dumb ass safe._ He starts climbing anyway.

Steve’s already at the top, huffing for breath, peering through a gap in the branches with a wide, satisfied smile on his face. They did climb the second-tallest tree in the whole park, after all. Nell finally catches up with him, straddling a big branch, craning his neck to find what Steve’s staring at. He lets out a low, appreciative whistle.

The setting sun blazes in the west, glazing Owl’s Head Park in creamy yellows, golds, and greens. From their perch, they can see every corner of it. They can see where Steve’s neighborhood, Bay Ridge, forks off around the corner, where the Brooklyn Army Terminal stands proud and strong in the Northeast, the old ruins of the Bliss Observatory, the steel-gray strip of the New York Bay, the Wastewater plant belching smoke into a brilliant orange sky. It feels like their whole world's stretched out in front of them. Like if you swam out too far you’d fall right off the edge of the Earth.

“Wow,” Steve breathes, his eyes fastened to the horizon line. Heavy purple clouds curl in the West, but their rain is for tomorrow. And this moment is for now. And right now, this moment is all that exists.

The tree sways a little in the breeze, but today, Nell isn’t afraid of falling. Today, Nell isn’t afraid of anything.

He looks over at Steve again. His lips, parted in hazy wonder, his hair sticking up all over the place, skin glowing pink and orange with the reflected light of the sun, Steve...Steve is a _vision_. It makes Nell’s chest ache.

He shifts his weight on the bough and almost slips off, but he catches himself. Steve tears his eyes away from the sunset with a gust of laughter. There’s a gap where his left canine should be: he'd lost the baby tooth there this week. He’s the most fascinating thing Nell’s ever seen.

“Hey, what were you saying about being careful, huh, dummy?” He teases, helping Nell back up into a sitting position.

“Psshh, I had it under control. Just got distracted, s’all.” He grins.

“Yeah. It’s awful pretty up here,” Steve says, staring out over the park.

“Sure is.” Nell murmurs, staring at Steve.

They sit there for a minute, letting the breeze ruffle their hair, soaking it all in. Some boys who were playing ball start to pack up their stuff and head home.

As they sit there, the wind biting cold at their exposed skin, Steve seems to tense, gripping his branch with bloodless fingers. The sun sinks into the Bay, shooting the sky through with more purple and less pink. The storm clouds bleed closer, and Nell idly worries about getting soaked on the walk home.

“It’s gettin’ kinda late, Stevie,” Nell says softly.

Steve doesn’t look away from the skyline, not even seeing it anymore. “Just--just a little longer, Nell. Promise.” His words are round and quiet. His eyes are blank and tight with worry.

Nell looks down at his shoes. “Alright, buddy. However long you need.”

The sun sinks lower. Steve clutches the tree harder.

“You okay?” He murmurs after a while.

“Yeah.” Steve frowns. “Yeah, I’m--I’m alright.” Nell hums mildly in response.

The cool twilight breeze whistles through the leaves. Seems like the whole city’s slowed down to let them have this moment, to let them catch their breath.

“It’s just...” Steve starts, picking at the bark. “I...it’s been hard, lately. Real hard. Just...dealing with things.”

"Is it...is it difficult...being someone like you?" Nell asks, trying to go for casual and landing somewhere around breathless.

Steve laughs but there's nothing funny. "It's _always_ difficult. There's never--there's always _something,_ right? It's like that. It's always...always gonna be there. But...I wouldn't change it. Sometimes I wish I was--I wish it was different. But it's not, and...it's never gonna be, right? I don't know. I'm dumb. Sorry."

Nell looks up to meet his eyes, pinched up and sad underneath heavy gold lashes. He doesn’t know what to say, so he covers Steves tiny, cold hands with his own. He hopes it’s helping.

A smile flickers for a second on Steve’s face and he leans over and rests his head on Nell’s shoulder, their fingers still intertwined. It’s impractical and awkward and it’s hurting Nell’s back sitting like this and bark’s digging into his shoulder and his heart’s beating out of his chest and it feels _so so good._

“It’ll be okay,” Nell whispers, and for a second he almost believes it. “It’ll be alright, I promise you, Stevie. Everything is gonna...everything’s gonna be okay. Trust me."

“Sorry I’m such a baby all the time,” Steve whispers back.

“Shh, don’t say that. You’re perfect.” Nell presses his cheek against the top of Steve’s head, watching the sunset turn to dusk. There’s that feeling again: like there's nothing in the world but this. Like there's nothing he needs to do, there's nowhere he needs to be but here, living this moment with Steve. The whole world is soft and forgiving and everything is okay. He shuts his eyes.

“We should get going. My ma’s gonna have a coronary.” Nell mumbles, his eyes still closed. Steve laughs tiredly, lifting his head and getting his bearings. Climbing down is a bit harder in the dark, but they manage.

The walk back to Steve’s is cast in orange street lights, blue shadows, and comfortable silence. They hold hands. Nell smiles into the dark.

When they turn on 78th and Ridge, Steve stops him under the lamp post outside his tenement.

Nell sees him fidget with the high collar of his dress. Steve looks at him. He looks at Steve--there’s something hot and unfamiliar and electric in the blue of Steve’s eye, and it sends a thrill down his spine. Nell’s heart slams against his ribs, Steve moves closer.

“So…” Steve breathes. “I guess this’s my stop.”

“Yeah,” He replies, staring at the way Steve’s lips fit around the words. “Guess it is.” Nell takes an unconscious step forward. When he sees Steve’s warm gaze on his mouth his knees nearly buckle. His hands shake in his jacket pockets.

“I...I should…” Nell starts, not knowing where the sentence will end, he should be doing something, going somewhere, he should be _kissing Steve_ \--

No, wait, this is--this...they shouldn’t. He likes him, but he's just not..not ready for--

Nell pulls back, blinking hard. Steve, who’d had his eyes half closed, lips half-parted in anticipation, straightens immediately, pursing his mouth and staring at the street gutter like it is the most interesting thing he’d ever seen. He coughs awkwardly, his face blossoming a blotchy pink. There is an uncomfortably loud silence.

“So, ah, I’ll see you at school tomorrow?” Steve rocks on the balls of his feet.

“Uh, yeah. Yes. Of course. I’ll see ya then. Goodnight.” Nell’s tone is clunky and clipped, already stumbling backward.

"Bye now!"

“Goodnight!”

“Bye!”

“I'll see ya.”

"You bet!"

Nell rounds the corner and immediately presses his back to the cool stone. He suppresses a groan, scrubbing the heels of his hands into his eyes. Steve wanted to kiss him. _Steve wanted to kiss him!_ He feels like he took a sledgehammer to the sternum. He lifts his head off the wall and peers around the corner. Steve is leaning against the post with a shell-shocked expression on his face. Still staring at that same spot in the gutter. Nell’s stomach flips and rolls inside him--what the hell is he gonna say to him at school? _‘Sorry I was gonna kiss you but chickened out halfway through’? ‘Sorry I’m so entirely confused with myself I can’t even begin to imagine being honest with you’? ‘Please don’t stop being my friend’? ‘I’m sorry’?_

Nell ducks behind the corner again. He closes his eyes and sighs, scrubbing his hand over his face. It’s getting late, his mom’ll be home soon and she’d beat his ass if she found out he’d spent the afternoon with Steve. He starts the long walk across town with his head ducked and his hands shoved deep into his coat pockets. What a mess.

 

* * *

 

 

He’s well down Fourth Avenue when he hears it.

“Hey!” A young man’s voice slurs. “Hey, you!” Oh, God. Nell drops his head further and curls his shoulders in on himself. _Please, please, please, not tonight, please, I just wanna go home_.

“You! Girl in the red jacket, yeah, you!” _Oh, God, please, no._

“Hey! HEY! I’m talkin’ to you, huh?” The creep hollers down the street. Nell looks over and spots a pack of greaseballs leaning against an alley wall. They're slugging back conspicuous brown paper bags, staring hungrily at him, like wolves licking their chops. He doesn’t recognize them, he thinks they were at the park playing ball when Steve and him climbed the tree, but nobody he knows. Nell turns back around and walks faster. He really doesn’t like where this is going.

One of them, a ginger boy with a wide, leery smile, calls out to him. “Aw, c’mon, don’t be like that, sweetheart!” His friends are laughing like it’s the funniest thing they’ve ever heard. “Come say hello, we won’t bite.”

Nell grips his house key between two knuckles. His stomach feels so cold. “We’re being nice, even, asking and all. Some fellas ain’t as nice as us, baby,” The guy drawls. They’re in _hysterics_. “Some fellas’d just come over there and _take it_.”

The keys dig into Nell’s hand. He walks faster still, a chilly sweat tickling his hairline. “Hey! _C’mon_ , we'll make you feel real good, sugar, if you’d--”

Nell can’t hear it over the rush of blood in his ears, over the pounding of his feet on the concrete, wet with small spatters of rain. He’s running and running and running, skidding around the corner and down 56th, flinging open the door to his building and tripping over the stairs on his way up. He fumbles with his keys with shaky hands, and when he drops them he cries out in frustration. He sinks against the wall, crying, trembling, cold. He feels so cold. Someone in one of the upper floors stomps twice and hollers to shut up. His face burns with shame but he feels so fucking cold. Nell doesn’t know how long he stays curled up outside of his apartment, trying so, so hard not to shake apart.

He staggers into his empty apartment on unsteady feet, groping for the light switch, for the lock to keep out the world, for the knob to his mother’s still, quiet bedroom where his daddy’s clothes are kept. He savors putting them on, dragging the soft, warm cloth over his skin, breathing in the lingering scent, taking his time with the binder bra and even the big brown shoes, but...it’s not the same. He looks in the mirror and sees the lines again. It’s not--it’s not  _working_ anymore, it feels like he’s a kid playing dress-up in his father’s clothes. He feels so small. He feels so--so  _stupid_.

They can’t...they can’t take this from him, they _can’t._  Please. Please, not this, too, please, anything else, just let him--just let him have this, please. _Please_. It’s all he’s got.

Nell puts his head between his knees.

Outside, thunder rolls.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> You know the drill: 1 like=1 prayer.  
> But comments literally inflate my heart to 10 times the size, like that scene in the Grinch, so I WILL physically die of happiness if you leave one. I'll keep writing this story from beyond the grave if I have to! I will not give up!!


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nell's got a present for Steve.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> HHHHH I am sorry for taking so long. WE'RE GONNA GET INTO THAT GOOD BUCKY ANGST SOON I PROMISE TO NOT BLOW IT OFF I PROMISE. I LOVE YALL DONT GIVE UP ON ME.

 

 

Nell wakes early that morning.

A pale, cool glow bleeds past the shutters, washing the apartment in tender morning light. His shadow slips silently along the creaky floorboards, careful not to wake his mother or their roommates. He watches his blue reflection brush teeth with a finger and claws through it’s hair with a broken-toothed comb. After searching the creaky cabinets for a breakfast he doesn't find, he stares glumly out the window. Watching the shadows melt away, watching his city take shape under the dawn’s gentle hands, he sighs.

What’s he gonna say to Steve? He’s already fucked everything up so bad, and now Steve’s gonna tie himself in knots trying to take the blame and it's gonna be this big thing and...God. Fuck. He’s so tired. He hangs his head, chin brushing his chest, and tries to breathe through it. Come on, Nelly. Just another day. Come on.

On his way out the door, his eyes catch on that scrappy shoebox under his bed. The one where he keeps the boy in the mirror.

Something dark twists in his guts. That’d do. That’d do real well. Two birds, one stone, right? Maybe this could work. He could wash his hands of it, and Steve could...Steve could be happy.

Always been the brave one, really, always deserved better than what he got. What he was born with. Steve deserves the world and more, that’s the problem. Steve with his gnarled back and tight lungs, with his hunched shoulders, with his skirted uniform, with his drunken father and frustrated, domineering mother. Steve who is bright and sweet and golden, like a smooth drop of honey on your tongue, Steve who is broken but never breaks.

So Nell’s gonna fight till the day they put him in the dirt for Steve to have this. To be himself. It’s the least he can do. So Nell’s gonna do just that, one little piece at a time.

\-----

“So, um, I got somethin’ for ya.” Nell mentions airily, like it’s no big deal. They’re about fifteen minutes early for school, loitering in the narrow hallway, decidedly not speaking about last night.

Nell tugs on the straps of his school bag nervously, the binding brassier inside. It feels ten times heavier with it in there, even though the thing itself’s light as paper.

“S’not my birthday yet, Nelly. It’s the day with all the fireworks and hotdogs and independence and whatever.”

“I know, I know, but this’s special. Just for you.”

“Yeah?” Steve smiles.

“Yeah. Wanna see?”

“You bet.”

They duck into the girl’s bathroom and Nell pulls the thing out: white, lacy, stiff, incriminating. His fingers burn where he touches it. Steve must know from the way his hands shake.

“What is it? A bra?” Nell almost faints in relief. But Steve--sweet, golden, none-the-wiser Steve--looks at Nell with a fake-mad expression on his face, hands on his hips. His smile is crooked and teasing. “What, you tryin’ to say somethin’, Barnes?”

“No, it’s, uh, well, kinda...uh, it’s a…y’know.” Nell looks away, embarrassed. He pushes down on his chest in explanation, flattening slightly. “I thought it might...I dunno, make you feel better?” He looks back at Steve, whose eyes are wide and reverent and swimming with bright-blue wonder.

“Oh, _Nelly,_ ” Steve whispers, taking it off his hands. “Oh, Nell, Oh my gosh, thank you!” There’s that smile. Just like the sun.

Nell puts his hands back on his backpack straps. “Wanna try it on? I think my ma’s about the same size as you, if--” But Steve’s already tripping over himself to get in the stall. “Well, Gee. Glad you like it so much.” Nell laughs. Steve takes his time wrestling the thing on before stepping out. His uniform shirt lies smooth against his shallow chest.

“Look, look! Look how flat!” He squeaks, smoothing a hand over his front to show. He’s so proud of him.

Steve scrambles over to him, arms outstretched and searching for a hug, which he finds. He really does feel flat. “How’s it feelin’, buddy? Not too tight?”

“No, no, it’s great! Thank you! Oh, Nelly, thank you so much!” Steve’s gleeful voice echoes off the tile, his skinny arms cinch around Nell’s middle. He melts. It’s perfect.

“Whoa, there, slugger. Don’t break my ribs, I need those.” Nell laughs breathlessly. Steve giggles and spins them in place like they’re dancing, their skirt hems swirling around their knees. Their shoes scuff and squeak on the dirty tile floor. It’s _perfect_.

Steve must realize what he’s doing, what this must look like, what this could mean after last night, because he releases Nell whip-fast, like his touch burns. The space where Steve had pressed against him suddenly feels cold.

Eyes round and apologetic, Steve parts his lips around an I’m sorry, but Nell cracks a smile and stops him short. _Don’t make it weird, don’t make it weird, Nell, just shut your stupid mouth, don’t ruin his moment._

“S’okay. C’mon, let’s get to class. Bell’s gonna ring soon.”

“Yeah. Can I keep it on, though?”

“Sure thing.” Steve starts toward the door, but Nell doesn’t move.

“I actually need to _use_ the bathroom, y’know.” If his smile is a little stiff, Steve doesn’t notice.

Steve laughs. He’s so happy. “Sorry, sorry. See ya later, Nelly.” He calls from over his shoulder, already leaving. He can feel the cracks forming, the places panic leaks like a bad faucet. C’mon, Nelly.

He grips the rusted rim of the bathroom sink, breathing in and out. _C’mon, He thinks. C’mon, please, not here. Not now._

His eyes flick up to his reflection. The dark wavy hair, curling around his strong jaw. Those big gray eyes, hollow and dim with lack of sleep, with worry. The pale mouth thinned in a grimace. A patchwork of separate features, like oil and water, never coalescing into a single image. Back bowed, muscles coiled up tense like a snake, he wishes he could shed his skin. It feels hilariously, hideously familiar.

Nell’s insides burn cold, his white-fingered hands grip the filthy rim until they ache. It feels good, in a depraved kinda way. Keeps him from floating away. A few shameful tears splatter and slip into the fetid drain. He burns.

_Come on, Come on, Nelly, you can do this. You can get better. Better for Steve. You can get better for Steve. You can get better. Come on._

His mind stutters there, harsh-edged, skipping like a record scratch. Clinging to a fixed point in a world of roiling uncertainty.

_For Steve. For Steve. For Steve. For Steve. For Steve._

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i was deliberating on just knocking out all the nell chapters in one post but then i was like....no. im gonna stick to the snapshot chapters because that makes it easier to read and easier to write.  
> anyways this chapter took me forever to feel confident in so if u could leave a like and a comment my LIFE would be made. <3<3<3<3<3<3<3


	8. Chapter 8

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nell and Steve visit Coney Island.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So you know how I said I was gonna update frequently? haha I'm sorry.  
> Anyway, I've moved around my schedule a bit so I can write during the day and not leave it all until after 6:00 pm when I'm too tired to be alive. So have a little set-up chapter! We're the tail end of this arc, I swear!!!  
> Special thanks to Kyra for cheerleading and all around being the most patient person on the planet Earth as I squawk about Nell. YOU'RE THE BEST, KYRA!!! <3!!!

 

 

“Swear to God--”

Steve smacks his arm.

“Sorry. Swear on that gum you like, Beechies. Swear on twenty packs of cigarettes. Swear on a month’s laundry. It’ll be _fine._ ”

Steve shifts on his feet, skinny arms crossed nervously. “I dunno about this, Nelly…”

“C’mon, It’ll be fine. It’s a _rollercoaster,_ not a _death_ sentence, don’t get bent.” Nell offers a smile and an affectionate shoulder check. “Please? For me?”

Steve rolls his eyes, but he’s smiling too. “For the month’s laundry, maybe.”

“You drive a hard bargain, Rogers,” He teases, taking Steve’s hand. “But you’re comin’ with me.”

After some hemming and hawing, he finally folds, allowing himself to be dragged along like a ragdoll. Steve’s wearing some of Nell’s dad’s old duds; nothing noticeable, nothing flashy, just a pair of too-big pants and a stained work shirt from the back of the closet. The shoes were too big, so they stuffed them with wadded-up newspaper. Every step crinkles quietly.

They both know it’s just till the end of the day, but it’d made Steve smile so fucking big and bright Nell wanted to fork over the whole damn closet. If you saw him on the street--what with the binder and the clothes and the girl on his arm--you’d assume he was just like every other boy. Steve passes quite well. Still, Nell hovers protectively by his side just in case any jerk with a chip on their shoulder wants to give him a hard time.

They must make a pretty odd couple: some tall, intimidating teenage girl and her fella standing at five foot four. It gives Nell a quiet thrill, knowing that to a passerby, it must look like a _date._   

They both cough up the Cyclone’s 25 cent fare (though not without griping) and shove past the turnstile. When Nell slides past Steve in line with a quiet _ladies first,_ Steve glows brighter than the neon Astroland sign.

They buckle into a car and wait for the ride to start. The sun hits Steve’s squinted eyes, bleaching his eyelashes, lighting up that flare of blue-green wrapped around his pupil, kissing the gentle slope of his cheek. It burns into Nell’s brain like a brand. Steve still hasn’t let go of him.

“Nervous?” Nell asks, his heart filling up his whole chest. He’s got no room for nervous.

“Never,” Steve replies squarely, but they can both feel his palm sweating.

In a few short minutes, the ride judders to life under them, the track ticking and creaking unnervingly as the car crawls up and up and up into the cool, cloudy sky. The city’s at that sweet spot between summer and fall when the world’s leaves play coy with their coloring, not quite green anymore, drowsy but not dropping anytime soon. As they climb higher and higher, light makes a break from the clouds, pouring down on the pier, washing the Bay in diamond light. The breeze whips Nell’s hair off the nape of his neck, twisting it up in strange shapes, flowing like seaweed in a current. He closes his eyes against the gust, savoring the sun on his skin. When he turns his head Steve’s staring at him with a funny look on his face. The car climbs higher still.

“Whatta view, huh!” He crows.

Steve’s lips move but the sound is lost under a gale of wind.

“What?” He hollers back.

“Said s’like you’re the queen of New York, Nelly!” Steve’s gaze is clear and bright and his mouth is tweaked up at the corners. He spells out happy like it’s written on his forehead.

Something blooms hot and fast in Nell’s chest. _You’re the queen of New York, Nelly!_ He giggles, breathless, fond, blushing.

They stall at the Cyclone’s first peak, suspended in the stratosphere for a brief infinity. Immobile yet moving, tipping recklessly into something new but completely in control, anticipation zinging in their stomachs but afraid of the drop.

Nell looks at Steve like he’s never seen him before in his life. Queen of New York, huh? He likes the sound of that.

They tip. Air rushing all around them, blood pounding in their ears, the coaster falls far and fast and hard, and Nell’s neck nearly breaks ‘cause he can’t stop staring. Mouth open, cheeks flushed, wide as saucers, Steve’s screeching like a banshee. He’s so beautiful it makes Nell laugh. They swoop and curl and spin until they’re dizzy and all Nell can think of is how much he wants him. Just a nebulous desire for closeness, to find the heat within Steve’s touch, the feel of his lips, taste the sweet flutter of his pulse, to hold him close and confess his sins of stolen clothes and crying boys in bathroom mirrors. To be baptized with an _I forgive you._ Absolved with an _It’s okay_.

_You’re the queen of New York, Nelly!_

He screams with Steve, but not for the same reason. He screams ‘cause he’s terrified of the future, ‘cause he’s got the world in his hands but it all feels wrong. He screams because everything he’s ever wanted is inches away from him but entirely untouchable.

_You’re the queen of New York, Nelly!_

Nell screams with Steve for the hell of it, to let the thoughts bleed out of him like water from a wrung towel, to beg for reprieve, to let his back bow under the weight of the world, to let himself be weak. The sound catches on howling wind, coloring the bright sky with their lovely terror and muted joy.

They spin and dip and thrash around turns at break-neck speed until they’re both sore and bruised and out of breath. But soon enough the ride settles down, plateauing into an easy glide and finally a whining, shuddering halt. Nell looks mildly at Steve, who has a hand clamped over his pale mouth.

They unbuckle and wobble on coltish legs to the exit, but by the time they get out into the fresh air, Steve’s looking mighty green. He flies on desperate feet to a nearby garbage bin that he retches into until he’s wheezing.

“Shit, son of a bitch, Rogers!” Nell cackles, thumping him on the back. He immediately regrets it--a stranger scoffs loudly at him--he flushes red. Probably wasn’t very polite. Steve glowers into the trash can.

“You square?” He asks once Steve’s puking tapers off.

Steve wipes his chin with the back of his hand and grimaces. “Yeah, aces, Nell.”

Nell can feel Steve’s ribs beneath his hand as he straightens up. “Sure about that?”

“S’alright. I liked it, the ride, I mean. Not the throwing up.” Steve shrugs.

“C’mon, let's get some water, huh? Your breath reeks.” Nell teases reflexively, letting the jibe fall out of his mouth without even thinking it. He blushes again. _Un-ladylike, rude,_ He admonishes himself. _Stupid, bullheaded, undesirable._ Nell bites his tongue.

_You’re the queen of New York, Nelly!_

What kind of queen would that make him? Shame floods him. He watches Steve roam from ride to ride, steady and easy and untroubled, happy with the world, happy with himself. Stick-thin, pencil-neck, vomit-breathed Steve, Nell’s king of New York any day. If it meant that Nell could be Steve’s queen, then he can hold his tongue. Maybe he can be quiet, maybe he could be small, maybe he could be beautiful, maybe he could be delicate. Maybe he could be Steve’s china-doll girl. For a split second, just a hair of a moment, Nell can see it. The shift of a crinoline dress, the red of his lips kissing Steve’s cheek with a _welcome home, honey._ Dinner on the stove. Some rugrats running around. It’s all there, that life, that role, that painted-on smile, laid out in front of him like a picture print. Just waiting for him to reach out and take it. To take that chance. He looks at Steve, something warm filling up his chest, winding like ivy up in his throat, stinging his eyes.

_You’re the queen of New York, Nelly!_

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> LONG WORD-Y PARAGRAPH AHEAD (the author is an emotional wreck)
> 
> I got several comments telling me to hurry up and let Nell come out as Bucky, to let Nell be happy, let Nell be gay etc. etc. and lemme tell you, babes, it's on its way, and I am COMPLETELY on your side. BUT I have been taking my time with this arc for a lot of reasons.  
> For one, this part of the story is based almost entirely on my own trans experience, and how I interacted with gender before I came out. Before I admitted it to myself, I was incredibly confused and isolated, someone existing entirely made up of other people's expectations, other people's needs, other people's ideas of who I should be. I was lost and estranged in my girlhood, alienated in my body in a way that made me completely unrecognizable to myself, just like how Nell feels. I remember being younger and feeling this desperate, inescapable need to be someone else, to try on identities like pairs of clothes, to live my life in the gaps between reality and fantasy, to mold my young self into someone quiet, small, comely, someone who would make a good girlfriend or wife or mother, not a REAL person. That is something that nobody had prepared me for, being a Real Human Being. It's like when you're in love for the first time and you hear all the songs on the radio and you're like OH SHIT IT ALL MAKES SENSE NOW. It was jarring to suddenly be wrenched out of a lifelong dysphoric fog and suddenly be human. Maybe that's just me.  
> Anyway, the reason I torture Nell so goddamn much is that I see myself in him, and all the circles he runs through in his relationship with gender and his relationship with Steve are things I went through, things I had to deal with. So I make his life hell 'cause mine used to be too.  
> Writing this has really helped me fight my dysphoria and reclaim my body in a way I wouldn't have thought possible. I'm not saying that it's completely gone or whatever, but it's a lot better than it was 3 months ago! Thank you for supporting my writing!!! I'm so overwhelmed and flattered!!!!  
> Moral of the story: I am so goddamn emotionally invested.  
> Also, I swear I'll try and update faster. I really am sorry, I just have a lot of school work.  
> Smash that kudos button and leave a comment!! I love you!!!!


	9. Chapter 9

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nell goes through some changes.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Content warning for unhealthy relationships and mentions to child abuse. Some pubescent weirdness and sexual thoughts from Nell so if you're uncomfy with that then you should skip the paragraph that starts after the line: "Growing up, indeed." and ends on "Isn't that what's normal, what's right?".  
> This chapter was so hard to write! Working through something so difficult, something that affected me for years afterward...THAT WAS ROUGH!!!!! Being a trans dude falling in love with a straight boy is HELL.  
> I hope it knocks ya socks off cause it's the longest chapter yet (2.5k)! <33333!!!!!

 

 

“Okay, _now_ you gotta tell me.” Nell prods. Sitting in alleyway polarized by sun and shadow--Nell staying cool in the shade, Steve warming up under the light--their knees bumping fondly, shuffling up clouds of dirt with their toes. They’re smoking stolen cigarettes. Steve’s wearing the dad-clothes again.

“It’s _nobody._ ” Steve blushes.

“Oh, you’re a big fat _liar,_ Steve, your ears are bright pink!” Nell exclaims, stomping his foot on the ground, a fat puff of dust punctuates his statement. He bites his cheek in regret. Too loud. Too much.

“I’m telling you the truth!” Steve squeaks, his hands thrown up.

“You’re just shy cause I know her.” Nell’s eyes sparkle. He takes another drag.

“I-- _No!_ She’s-- she goes to a different school!”

“Liar. Betty?”

“No.”

“Monica.”

“Definitely not.”

“Patty?”

_“No!”_

“Is she pretty?” Nell’s grinning.

“Uh,” Steve says, looking away.

“ _C’mon, Stevie,_ what’s she look like?” Nell goads, emboldened by how riled up Steve seems: blushing from chin to hairline.

“She’s got, um. Brown? Hair?” Steve’s looking at his shoes.

“Brunettes, huh?” Nell elbows him gently. That’s allowed, it’s teasing, it’s flirting. It’s allowed.

“Shut up,” Steve tells the floor.

“What color eyes?”

He laughs. “M’not tellin’.”

“C’mon, I wanna know your type. Brown?”

Steve doesn’t say anything.

“Green?”

Nothing.

“Blue?”

The corner of his mouth twitches.

“I fu--I knew it! _Blue eyes!”_ He crows. Steve moans and puts his head in his hands.

“You’re a terror, Nell. A real devil.” Steve grumbles.

“So brown hair, blue eyes. Susan?”

“No.”

Nell bites his cheek again. “Dory?”

Steve glares. That’s a no, then.

“...Ruth?”

“No! Would you quit already?”

“Not until ya tell me.” Nell smirks, staring into Steve’s face, hungry for a reaction. Steve glares, his jaw set stubbornly.

“Tell me.” He insists. Steve bites his lip, giving Nell a wicked idea.

“Tell me.” Nell purrs, soft and dark and sweet. Sounds like he’s dropping a line on Steve. It doesn’t even sound like his voice.

Nell expects him to laugh. He expects him to shove Nell’s shoulder and tell him to piss off, he expects to continue pestering Steve, he expects things to go back to normal, to the way they were five seconds ago. But Steve’s head jerks up, looking him square in the face with this _look_. All round-eyed and curious and strange and familiar at the same time. Steve looking at him like he’s every star in the light-polluted sky. Nell feels it like a shot of electricity deep down in him, curling in his lap like a cat, in his trembling fingers, the raw heat radiating out from his core. His toes curl in his socks. The game just changed, and Nell likes playing this one much better.

“Tell me.” Nell breathes. What a shock of power he feels when Steve shivers, mouth parted around a shaky exhale. He’s even prettier this close. From the way Steve’s staring at him, he’s gotta pretty good idea of who it might be, but he says it anyway. He needs to hear it out loud, he wants that irrevocable proof he’s not _alone_ anymore. He needs to hear that he’s not the only one. Nell stays put in the shadows, knowing his place, knowing that good girls don’t lean in first, knowing that good girls aren’t supposed to want kisses. Nell wants Steve’s kisses though. More than anything.

Steve draws closer, hanging in that finite eternity, feeling the tension in their bones, in their teeth, in every inch of electrified skin, knowing nothing will ever be the same again. Nell wants Steve. He wants him, wants him so bad, he wants to wants to touch him, paint his skin in living color, never know anything but the feel of him under his hands, live in the blush on his cheeks, the pink of his lips, he wants it always. Forever. He wants to die with his back bowed and palms up, worshipping Steve Rogers _._

_Please say it. Please say I’m not alone anymore. Please kiss me, please. I want you._

There’s that look in Steve’s eyes again, that one from that night under the lamp post, but it’s different. It’s different this time in a hundred thousand ways, from the way his voice floats slow and sweet between them to the way their shaking fingers find a home brushing together. It’s different because this time everything sits safely inside the cookie cutter--no room for uncertain.

_Please say it. Please kiss me. Say it. Tell me._

Steve’s fingers lace with his and it’s the closest thing to holy Nell’s ever felt in his life.

_Tell me. Say it. Kiss me. I want you. I want everything you are._

Steve’s eyes flutter, threatening to shut, he leans forward on raw instinct, chasing the rush and suddenly--

And suddenly Steve’s soft mouth is on his and they’re _kissing._

It’s strange and wet and clumsy and Nell’s shaking so bad their mouths must miss half the time. He’s afraid to breathe out--terrified, small, fragile. He’s frozen, quivering in Steve’s arms--glowing, exalted, wonderful.

Steve’s lips are warm and wet and taste like Lucky Strike. Nell’s eyes water, his whole body lit up like a Christmas tree, every nerve ending singing with impotent, unchanneled teenage sexuality. He sighs into Steve’s mouth.

Steve’s everything, he’s the breath in Nell’s body, he’s the taste on his tongue, he’s the roar in his ears, he’s the pound of Nell’s heart, the forgotten cigarette burning in his hand, Steve’s the fat tears clotting Nell’s eyelashes, he’s the words beating on the back of his teeth: Steve’s an _I love you_ he’s scared to mean.

Nell’s kiss is shy, laced with practiced timidity. He trembles in Steve’s arms. To touch or not to touch, to seek out with a hungry hand and eager mouth, or to stay locked in his ivory tower of passive, obedient pliance. He shivers when Steve’s hand finds his waist, dragging him into the sunlight, he can feel it warming his skin. Out of the black and into the blue, just like they say.

They pull back, a gossamer strand connecting their mouths, wearing twin expressions of shock. Steve’s expression is ominously indecipherable, wide-eyed and frozen, like a deer in headlights.

“I’m--” Nell starts to apologize, cut off by a kiss smacked directly on his mouth, stunning him. And another on his cheek. And another on his forehead. And another and another and another. Nell’s giggling like a child under Steve’s kisses, blushing an embarrassing tomato-red, breathless, relieved. All worries from the past months have dissolved, Steve cements him securely in place, shackling him to safety, filling up his heart, making him whole. There’s no confusion anymore. Everything makes sense against Steve’s lips. Everything’s above the belt. Pure. Simple. Puppy love.

They sit in the sun, warming their young bones, thinking. Kissing like the world’s ending. Both of them know that everything’s about to change, that the sneaking around is only going to get even worse; that a new beginning is really just an expiration date, a ticking time bomb until one of them caves and it’s all over.

“Will you go with me?” Steve whispers against Nell’s cheek. He’s helpless to say anything but a soft and tender _yes._

Because as long as Steve’s gonna string this along, Nell’s along for the ride. He knows that anything good can’t last forever, that teenage romances have an ugly life expectancy, especially between friends but...he just knows that it’s not gonna be him who ends it. As long as Steve wants him, he’ll be there. And if that lasts 6 days or 6 months or 6 years he’d gladly be there as Steve’s right hand, his knight, his confidant, the cheek under his kiss, his _girl_.

In that moment, Nell knows that he’ll be there. He’ll be there for Steve ‘till the day he dies. His eyes water. Whatever Steve needs, whatever Steve wants him to be, he can be it. Giving him piece after piece until there’s nothing left, letting Steve leech it away like the tide beating on a clay-streaked shore. Natural. Easy.

Nell’s never felt this clean in his life. Everything seems so simple. God has blessed him with a piece of heaven, of serenity. God has blessed him with purpose. Steve kisses him again.

Funny, how getting everything you’ve ever wanted tastes so bittersweet.

 

\---

 

And as the weeks turn to months, and the months turn the seasons, Nell and Steve slip deeper and deeper into their roles. By the time December rolls around, Nell’s sitting like a lady, walking like a lady, eating like a lady, keeping his knees shut and his mouth closed like a lady. He grows his hair out just past his shoulders, shiny and dark and thick and terribly hard to manage. Magazines stolen from corner stores show him how to paint his face with color, how to make a red smile come alive on the canvas of his tired face, to line his eyes dark and sweet like chocolate. Learning how to warp his body around other’s desire, other’s needs, to take advantage of the femininity that only now finds its purpose under Steve’s gaze.

Yet in the midst of all this change, Steve himself stands steady as a bulwark, never asking why. He stares, of course, it’s hard not to--Nell’s as radiant in a red dress as an amaryllis in spring--and he’ll kiss the color from his lips in every shadowed corner of Brooklyn, but he never says a word. Not ever.

Purple and yellow are splattered across Nell’s face, his head, his arms and legs--beatings arriving on the wings of a _how could you,_ of a _your own fault,_ when rumors of him getting fresh with neighbor boys wormed their way into his home like evil snakes. Arriving at school the next day with tired, swollen eyes. Still, Steve says nothing.

Nell’s filled with love, he’s filled with violence of it. His heart beats with rich devotion, with obsession, with addiction. It sings, blooming flowers with bitter jealousy and wicked pain, with slavish dependency, bruising itself. Bleeding from the inside out. His love is everywhere he goes, it’s in the grocery store, it’s in his shaking hands, it’s in the walk to school, it’s in the songs on the radio, it seeps into every part of him like wet ink on white paper. He _is_ love. He _is_ pain. He _is_ violence.

Nell is passive simplicity, draped on Steve’s arm, Nell is righteous fury that drops anyone who gives them anything but a passing glance. Nell is made of charcoal and stone, ugly and hardened and consumed by fire. He’s eaten alive by lonely tears and watery bruises stamped on his skin, by tremors of boundless fear and infatuation. Nell’s a cardinal in winter, a drop of red against the snow, a glowing ember that lies amidst white ash. He burns from the inside out.

It hurts, sure, but what is hurt to someone who’s numb? Does a callus bleed? Can thickened skin still scream when licked by fire? Nell doesn’t know. Couldn’t feel it if he tried. Doesn’t need to. Doesn’t want to.

And Steve, borrowing clothes more and more frequently, soon talks and spits and plays rough like any other boy in their neighborhood. He walks all tight nowadays, holds himself with a shuttered round-shoulderedness and a quiet, boyish nature. But when he’s with Nell, it’s all ‘ _Once we get outta here…’_ and ‘ _Someday…’,_ his chin up and his eyes hooked on the stars. Steve thinks that it’d be better for them both to get away from the city, get away from their parents, get away from anyone that they knew so they could start anew in their proper lives. Him, standing tall in Nell’s father’s clothes and Nell, standing in Steve’s shadow. Nell thinks it might be nice. To escape. To have a _someday._

Steve’s still _Steve,_ though, sweet and shy and made of marigolds and buttercream, but just...different. Changed. Maybe that’s just a part of growing up. Maybe that’s what they’re both doing, maybe Nell’s growing up too. Nell doesn’t feel grown up, though. Feels like he’s a little kid in big girl’s clothing. He misses the binder bra. He knows he’s a terrible person for it.

Nell _does_ try to quit dressing up in men’s clothes--quitting cold turkey shortly after that first kiss in the alley--but the need, the _compulsion_ , crops back up every few weeks like weeds in sour soil. He’s up to 3 or more times a week, pairs of thready boxers under uniform skirts, getting home from school as fast as he can so he can change into the rest and let his eyes bore into the reflection, drinking it in, dying for it all day. It terrifies him how much he needs it. It’s so exceptionally freeing to see somebody else staring back at him; somebody new and strong where Nell is weak and tired, someone handsome and curious and gentle-eyed and _alive_ , someone who isn’t quite him, but not entirely separate, either. Someone secret, though. Someone with shame written in the lines of his face, a boy with smears of womanhood staining his body: his changing cup size, the red in the basin of his underwear, the blood. The hot, red, red blood. Growing up, indeed.

Nell can’t stop having these awful thoughts, these awful _dreams._ Dreams that leave him hot-breathed and sticky with cold, sweaty sheets, dreams that more often than not star a very enthusiastic Steve Rogers in a deserted hallway or classroom or alleyway. Steve in his lap, Steve on his knees, Steve with Nell’s fingers in his mouth. He dreams about Steve in school, in class, in his bed, in _church,_ for Christ’s sake, but every time without fail Steve’s _under_ him. Now, Nell’s not exactly completely logistically solid on the exact mechanics of...of _that,_ but he’s pretty sure it’s supposed to be the other way around, right? Isn’t that what everybody’s saying? Isn’t the girl supposed to be under her fella? Isn’t that the way it goes? Isn’t that what’s normal, what’s right?

The dreams stick him with a queasiness that’s only intensified by seeing Steve the next morning, completely oblivious, unbothered and well-rested where Nell is squirrely and on-edge. He feels so guilty it turns all of Steve’s kisses sour. He still sees him every day in class, _and_ after _and_ on Sunday in church, but all through it Nell holds his breath, terrified that Steve’s somehow smell it on him. The stink of pubescent sin must follow him like a shadow.

Nell is sad. Nell is numb. Nell is made of secrets, dishonesty runs in his veins like bitter poison. Secret cross-dressing, secret names, secret kissing, secret blood, secret love, secret hate. Everything that makes him happy he isn’t allowed to have. And that’s a hard thing to deal with. Yes, Nell is sad.

Washed up in waves of goosebumps and lovesickness, strung out on obsessive, besotted craving, Nell is very, very sad.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> YOWZA YOWZA YOWZA!!!!  
> To clarify whats going on in this chapter if it was unclear: Nell n Steve kiss and they have a secret relationship b/c Steve is not out yet. Nell feels like if he dresses up and acts differently then they can make the relationship work longer, and Nell can be a girl for Steve. Nell is abused at home by his mother more often, but Steve doesn't know what to do about this so he copes by daydreaming and planning an escape for them. Steve isn't abusing Nell directly, he's just a kid who doesn't know what to do because he has similar problems with his own home life.  
> Leave a kudos! Leave a comment! I'd literally cry from happiness. Love you all and see you in the next chapter!!! :)


	10. Chapter 10

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nell thinks about some stuff.

 

 

Nell thinks the worst thing is feeling so powerless. Powerless under his mother’s closed fist. Powerless under Steve’s closed lips. Powerless under the weight his own head, tipped back, rolling, dizzy, full of smoke and mirrors. Reminds him of a game he’d seen boys playing. Bloody knuckles. Punch each other's hands till the red comes running. Steve picks fights with rowdy boys sometimes too, when Nell’s not around. They give him the bloody knuckles, the black eyes, the red teeth. In schoolyards, back alleys, in diner parking lots, the boys fight like animals. Like dogs. Bloody knuckles. Separate the boys from the men. Figure out who’s got the power. Who’s weak.

Nell feels weak. Nell feels like nothing. Even when he’s got Steve all riled up, playing his favorite game. Even when he knocks those same rough boys on their asses, chips their teeth, bloodies their noses, he feels weak. People don’t fuck around with Helen Barnes anymore. Hell on Earth, Hell on wheels, Hell to boys and girls and dogs and anything that looks at him too long. Nell’s poison, Nell’s sour milk, Nell’s evil. He’s mean as an Eden snake. He’s scorched Earth, he’s salted soil, he’s broken glass, he’s prickly as a rose’s stem. He’s got the bloodiest goddamned knuckles of all.

There’s a reason he keeps his hands in his pockets when Steve comes around and he’s gotta play sweet. People don’t like girls like him. Girls that fight. Girls that spit blue streaks at the drop of a hat, girls that don’t like housekeeping or needlepoint, try as he might to chase that cookie-cut dream of his. Steve certainly wouldn’t like him if he knew. Nell’s soiled, somehow, the canvas of him stained with sin and sweat and mulish obstinacy, with rust and lipstick and dirty thoughts. Somehow the angels built his life’s thread frayed, coarse, woven from rope, not yarn. Maybe he deserves that, though.

He’s a wildfire. Nell burns bright and fast and hot, flirting with evil, tasting Steve on his red red red lips, killing time, killing himself. He smokes more often. Lucky strike every time. Tastes like home. Tastes like safety. His daddy used to smoke, too. Stressed out? Smoke a cigarette. Hungry? Smoke a cigarette. Stomach ache? Smoke a cigarette. Nerves? Smoke a cigarette. Angry? Smoke a cigarette. Smoke a cigarette. Smoke a cigarette. He smokes so often his voice turns dark. Steve likes it, though. Not so bad, then.  

Nell prays to God more often. Seeking that purity, chasing that feeling of correctness, of duty, of purpose. Hasn’t prayed like this since he was a little girl, big-eyed and confused with the world, clinging to his mother’s side and walking her temper’s tightrope lines, believing his errant breath could knock down forests. Now, Nell’s on his knees before bed, first thing in the morning, clutching his rosary when he can’t sleep and everything feels wrong, praying. Pleading. Begging. Bargaining. The queen of New York with brambles in his thorny crown.

There’s no name for it, the wrong, that fierce, unknown, unfathomable want. It itches under the surface of his skin, coiling in his aching back and his hard shoulders, leaking out of his eyes in warm, salty tears. It throbs in his cold blood, in his blue veins, in his stomach, in his legs. He tastes it in his mouth, biting the pillow and rutting quietly against his bed, wishing there was something--anything--there in the cradle of his thighs. He wishes and wishes and wishes and prays and prays and prays, surviving on bits and pieces of life, starving for substance. Starving for meaning. He grits his teeth and clutches the little metal cross, letting it cut into his left hand as he rubs off against his right, his eyes stinging with shame. Yes, Nell prays to God. But he prays to Steve even more.

Nell’s shrine to the boy in the mirror grows like ivy. It grows like weeds, like the itchy scabs that cover his knuckles, like a disease. It blooms in his gut like summer flowers, fizzing in his veins with bubbles, like silver melting bright and warm in his core. It’s light as air, sweet as candy, makes him float right up to the ceiling like one of those helium balloons. Sometimes, when he feels good enough, he’ll even walk around the apartment _in the clothes!_ Really!

It makes him sad, sometimes, though, envious. Bitter. He wishes he could go outside, walk around and have a cigarette and lean against the wall and whistle at a woman like any other man on the street. Simple. Easy. Nell wants the thick belt around his hips, he wants the big shoes that don’t fit, he wants to feel how the sun feels as it soaks through a man’s shirt, he wants to skyrocket away from the world like a shooting star, blown away like a leaf the wind, he wants to live every second of freedom to the fullest, to never ever ever look back at who he used to be. He wants to be untethered to the filth of a body, flying like a kite on a caught wind, he wants to be a wave breaking on a black shore, he wants to be a field of wild wheat, he wants to be untouched, he wants to be untouchable. He wants to eat the world whole. He wants to never put lipstick over a split lip again.  

To be bathed in holy water, scrubbed clean and reborn in a man’s skin with a man’s low voice and a man’s silver tongue and a man’s strong face, with a man’s body and a man’s soul and a man’s love, a man’s hate. He wants it all. He wants the baby blue of baby boys, the toy trucks and the army men, he wants to piss standing up, he wants muddy boots and calloused hands and easy smiles and a rough cheek that’d scratch Steve’s fa--

And that’s where the fantasy ends. Cause Nell’s supposed to be the girl here. He’s the dame under Steve, he’s the daughter with ugly bruises staining his jaw, he’s the bastard child who walks over the soft earth that holds his daddy. The girl whose life’s a foggy haze only interrupted by Steve’s bright touch or kiss: always secret, always treasured, that always leaves him smiling and weak. Nell’s the girl with the single mom and no friends and the loud, dirty mouth. He’s the girl who doesn’t talk to kids his age, who doesn’t play nice or fair, who spends extra time in confessional each week, Nell’s the girl with the long pretty hair and the red lips and the mean words and the meaner fists. He’s the one with the shifty eyes and the bad slouch, with the busted up hands and a busted up lip and a busted up life. He’s the girl who’s trouble. He’s the girl who’s bad.

So Nell can’t have what he wants. That’s for Steve, that’s Steve’s thing to have and hold and _be._ Steve gets to have the short hair and the secret boys clothes and the walk and the talk and the red knuckles he doesn’t wanna hide. Steve’s radiant as an angel, halo white-hot and gilded in burning gold, in strength, in power. He’s everything Nell wants, everything he is, Steve’s is a Brooklyn tree growing in Nell’s ribcage, the cracks between them filled in with blood and salt and shining copper sap. Steve just... _deserves_ it more. So Nell’ll keep quiet, wait for it to pass like a rolling storm cloud, like spring showers, like white winter blizzards. Waiting for the sun to come out.

And so Nell waits. Through a hungry Christmas and a lonely New Year’s, through feathery snow and pouring rain, he waits. He waits as the cold ebbs and tiny green shoots poke up from the ground, their heads exploding into bright yellow flowers. He waits, watching the early birds perch on telephone wires and clotheslines, surrounded by fresh-washed sheets that swell with the wind like clean white sails. Nell waits for it to wash away in the spring sleet, swept away by April wind or melted in the May heat, but still, it stays. Sticky, like sour mud. Dirtying him inside, gumming up the spokes of his head ‘till they grind to a halt, stuck.

He knows it’ll leave. He _knows_ it will, he knows it like he knows the sky’s blue or that fire’s hot or waters wet, like he knows the solid ground under his feet. He just--he _can’t_ , there’s just no way that it’d be even  _possible._ What, even? _Two_ cross-dresser transvestites in Brooklyn? Two boys who could _like-like_ each other? Two boys who  _kiss?_ It makes his stomach go funny. It makes him feel like a joke. Like a punchline.

Nell sits on his porch step and waits, waits as spring flowers bud and bloom and die, waits as the world tosses him like a little boat on a lashing, frothing sea, waits as the gaping hunger swallows him whole, some awful beast taken root in his belly. Nell waits. Nell waits and withers and grows up with bloody knuckles scraping the inside of his pockets, with cuts on his cheeks from mama’s widow’s wedding ring, with red on his lips and in his blood and his cheeks and in the rusty flavor in his mouth, red dripping between his teeth. Nell waits.

Steve and Nell watch the sunset, sometimes. When they can. Sitting elbow to elbow, thigh to thigh, watching the gold bleeding across the sky, burning low like a wet-waxed candle, the city silhouetted, chunks of light cut out and washed in black. Pretty. Pure. Right. Natural.

Those days, the sky’s a brilliant ruby flame crawling into the harbor, snuffing out its own light like a blown match, like a lit cigarette dropped into a dirty New York puddle. It’s the same every time, the one thing Nell likes to count on. Steve’ll do the whole stupid yawn-and-stretch move and Nell will fall for it every time. Cuddling up in some back corner of Owl Park, turning their faces in when people pass by. Watching the sun go down. Like a real couple.

Watching that sun, Nell’s almost confessed a hundred goddamned times, almost spilled his guts on the skyline and left it to Steve to clean him up. To fix him, to make him better, wash him of his filth ‘till his skin’s scrubbed red and painful and hot to the touch, make him clean again. Make him whole. Make him holy.

Nell lives there, he thinks. That precipice, that razor-thin line of _almost_. The space between the lines is caged with prison bars, with barbed wire and guard dogs and sticky gray mud. He’s in limbo, trapped between Heaven and Hell. Waiting for the truth to sprout from the damp earth, green and tender and alive. 

After a while, Nell forgets what he’s even waiting for. It keeps him up at night, feeling sick to his stomach, needing to stay awake to wait. Is he waiting for the world to change? Is he waiting for God to forgive him? Is he waiting for Steve to guess what’s wrong with him? _Is_ he waiting, anymore? Is he just living on borrowed time? Is he living at all?

He’s terrified of sex. Terrified of Steve, terrified that Steve wants him to, that one of these days Steve’s gonna up and leave, finally bored of playing with the same old broken toys. Is Nell boring? Is Nell a slut? How does he define himself without Steve, without a man in the picture? Nell thinks of his dress collar unbuttoned just a tease too low, of Steve’s hand on his waist just a little too tight. Is Steve--is Steve waiting on him? Is he expecting Nell to put out, to roll over on his back like a trained dog and take it? Nell seizes with cold. Does Steve want that?

Would Nell give it to him?

Nell is painted in shades of fear and shame and lust, in the shades of storm clouds and lipstick and blue veins and white, cold hands holding his. Purgatory tastes like Steve’s tongue in his mouth. Hell on Earth lives within the cups of a bra.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I love yall. Just so u know.


	11. Chapter 11

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> SORRY, I DIDN'T UPDATE FOR 2 WEEKS HAHAHA...my 4th quarter is ending soon so I got a hell of a lot of work to do but I'll try to update more frequently!  
> A scene detailing sexual dysphoria starts after the bolded '1933' and ends with “I forgive you.” so if you are uncomfy with that just skip over it :)

 

 

**1932**

 

Nell sleeps. Nell barely opens his eyes all year. Nell sleeps through his fifteenth birthday, through midterms and finals and looming threat of graduation, Nell sleeps under summer’s green, leafy warmth and Steve’s soft lips, Nell sleeps under wet autumn leaves and gray, piling snow, he sleeps through a white-boned, shivering winter that thaws slowly into a brown spring. The Earth wakes up and Nell sleeps. Nell is comatose. Nell is dead. He is asleep.

 

**\--**

 

“Nelly?” Steve’s standing behind him in the cramped hallway, watching Nell fiddle with his front door.

“Yeah?” Nell responds. Quiet and gentle and gusty, soft like passing rain, light like how the wind blows. His shoulders are hunched and small and hard under his schoolbag, Nell is shy, curved, brittle. Tired. He’s always tired these days. The old, crusted lock finally clicks and gives under his hand and they shove inside.

Nell’s mom lets Steve come over, now, their mutual grounding forgotten, swept under the rug. All the hard edges smoothed by time, like a stone beach becoming sand. Steve’s hair is longer, now, anyway. Shaggy and mop-like and always getting in his eyes, still boyish and unruly and spun from gold. It makes Nell smile when he can.

“Nothin’. Nevermind,” He sounds weird. Steve’s jacket on the hook, Steve’s bag on the floor. “D’you wanna cuppa? Can I boil some water?” Something hot to warm them up. Steve’s always trying to make sure Nell’s got enough hot food. He’s so sweet like that.

“Yeah, yes, please. Thanks.”

“Aww,” Steve watches Nell stumble out of his little black shoes and grins. His teeth are crooked and charming. “You’re cute.”

Nell laughs awkwardly and turns away to busy himself with putting their things away, the dark wall of his hair between Steve and him. Sometimes he needs the safety of the shade when his sun burns too bright, too hot, too much.

The kitchen is small, with one scarred-up square window perched above the sink and plenty of scratchy dishrags. Milk-white April clouds gather outside, thick and solid and suffocating, like God’s thumb pressing down on them, sticky and promising rain. Tiny, shiny cars crawl like beetles in the wet roads. Just enough moisture in the air to pronounce the wet garbage stink of the city.

Nell watches as Steve puts the kettle on and lights the stove, humming as he goes. Steve can’t sing for anything, but it’s beautiful all the same, his scratchy voice like sunlight piping into the apartment. Nell sidles up behind him and holds his hand real gentle, sweet as sugar, sweet as candy. Their skirts brush.

Steve smiles, a little fond smile that’s just for him, like a cute little kid peeking up at him. Nell’s numb chest flickers, light yawning behind his sternum, behind his eyes, licking up his throat and shining behind his teeth. He feels the words crawl up and curl in his mouth, words that taste salty like tears and just as bittersweet. Words he has to choke back down like bile, words that leave him naked in his shame, words that hurt ‘cause they’re too true, too vulnerable, too hard to say. Words that break him open and let Steve see the heart he holds there, a heart filled with filth and pain, a heart slugging blood and sin and dirt. Nell swallows and smiles back. Show those teeth, Helen. Make it good.

“What d’you wanna do today?” Nell asks, gentle, tepid like old water.

“Well, s’kinda too rainy to go outside, so...maybe cards?” Steve turns back to the stove, staring at the kettle. _You’re not supposed to do that, stupid._ The old Nell would have said. _Ain’t nobody taught you that a watched pot never boils?_

“Yeah,” Nell says, ‘cause he’s him, ‘cause he’s this, now. Steve’s little hand drops from his, leaving him cold. “Cards it is.”

 

\--

 

They play all afternoon. Nell and Steve doubled over, deck in hand, laughing and talking, their hot tea long gone cold. They tease each other lightly, mostly Steve talking faux trash and Nell tittering softly into his cards, all his spitfire dead and buried. Steve’s smiling at him again, smiling like he’s never seen a sight so great as Nell’s half-hearted laughing. That smile that’s like a sunrise, like a little boy with his hand in the cookie jar, a smile like a secret cradled between them. Fragile. Trusting. Beautiful. Steve’s looking like that a hell of a lot this afternoon. Present and content and earnest yet... timid, almost. Nervous. That’s the word. Vulnerable.

He dreams about crawling over to Steve’s lap and into his arms and whispering secrets in his ear, secrets that aren’t safe, secrets that’re like poison, and his imaginary Steve would pet his hair and kiss his nose and forgive him. And they’d be whole. They’d be together. They’d be right.

Nell wants so many things. He wants Steve to still love him even when he’s wrong, still kiss him, still hug him, still hold him dear and gentle even though he’s built funny inside, kiss the scabs on his skinned knees, his busted knuckles. Maybe Steve would, if Nell told him. Maybe he’ll tell him some impossible rainy day, tell him with a straight spine and firm, strong words, unyielding, unflappable, untethered. Free. Nell wants so many things. Nell wants so badly to live. Nell wants so badly to be awake.

It’s a pipe dream, Nell knows. But what a beautiful dream it is, huh? Warm and soft and kind as anything. Like fair weather, like a secret smile, like a second sun right there in the apartment with them. Make-believe’s always so gentle and forgiving where life is not. His own weak smile feels like a _someday._

Nell holds his cards with unsteady hands. They play and sing and tease each other until it’s time for Steve to go home, go back to his apartment, back to his family and his bed and his dinnertime prayers and the other half of his double life. It’s time for Steve to go home. Because his home is not here. Because his home is not with Nell.

Steve and Nell say their goodbyes, Nell gets a peck on the cheek with the shutters drawn and Steve’s hand already on the doorknob. But when Steve pulls back, he’s got this...this _look,_ this look that makes Nell’s stomach turn, that makes his blood run hot and cold at the same time. The light from the dirty bulb in the hall rests on his shoulders, his lips curled up in a beholding smile, his eyes wide and dark and deep and blue, and he’s looking at Nell and Nell _knows_. It’s like watching a car crash happen in slow motion, Nell knows what’s gonna happen and there’s nothing he can do to stop it.

“I love you,” Steve says, curious and hushed and holy and earnest, like he’s stating a fact, simple, like a hello, like a goodbye. The light around his head trapped by his hair, a crown marking his perfect, impeccable sainthood. Light around his head like tinder meeting spark. Like any moment he might catch fire, like any moment he might burn Nell’s whole world down. Steve loves him.

Nell loves Steve. Of course Nell loves Steve, of course he does. He loves Steve. When someone says I love you, you’re supposed to say it back. _Say it back, please. Say it back. Say it back, Nelly,_ Steve’s eyes tell him. _Say it._

“I love you, too,” Nell says. Quiet. Colorless. Sleeping. He is stone, he is ash, he is twilight wind and gray rainy days. He is the night that leeches the color from the day, he is afternoon’s chilly aftertaste. He is the New York Bay swallowing the sun whole. Nell is sleeping. Nell is loved.

Nell loves Steve like his lungs love oxygen, like his ears love the taste of music, like a plant loves sunshine and rain--desperately, hungrily, instinctually. His love is bruising, it bleeds like a hemorrhage, love so strong it fills his body and crushes him from the inside out. His love’s deep as an oak tree’s roots, softer than the fertile soil, bluer than summer skies, sweet as any peach. Nell loves Steve more than anyone has ever loved another living thing, he was born loving him, he loves him more than life itself can hold. Steve is the only Heaven Nell will ever know, the only god he’ll ever get to touch. How do you fit that much love in three words? How can you fit that much pain? How can you ever truly mean it?

“I love you, too, Steve,” Nell repeats, letting Steve kiss him in the light of the hall. Another shackle to his name, another noose rubbing his neck raw, another ton of bricks sitting on his chest. All named _I love you._

Steve winds his arms around Nell’s waist, head pushing into Nell’s breast, hair fluttered by Nell’s breath, he’s smiling like a sleeping child. Peaceful. Nell feels his stomach flicker absently at the sight, strange, guilty, sick. Steve loves him. He loves Steve. Steve loves him. Steves loves this version of him. Steve loves him. Steve loves girls and Steve loves girls who say I love you and Steve loves girls who let him put his face in their tits when they hug. Steve loves Nell. Steve loves him. Nell loves Steve. If it’s not love then what is? If it’s not love then what is this all for?

If it’s not love then...what are they doing?

 

\--

 

That night, Nell lies next to his mother on their threadbare couch, his heart fluttering like a hummingbird, feeling like prey. What does an I love you mean? Nell thinks he loves her, his mother, who can kick and scream and hit him and break things and say every mean thing in the world, hissing and spitting and scratching like an alley stray, his mother who is so so angry it burns right through her and into Nell. His mother who beats him till he’s numb. It _is_ numb. It’s routine. Nell’s skin’s thick for a reason. Nell’s bruises are there for a reason, too.

Nell thinks she was nicer when his dad was still around. He remembers her, always home after school with kind, open arms and a glass of something that made Nell’s nose sting. He remembers hiding in her warm brown hair and feeling it tickle his skin, thinking he wanted to stay there forever. He turns his face into her shoulder and smells liquor and fear and the scars of old pain healed wrong. It makes his eyes water.

Nell thinks love you’s are something you say when you leave the house and you don’t want your mom to drink herself to death when you’re away. I love you’s are like cotton candy, like spun sugar and candy floss, sweet and beautiful, made of air and falsehood and corn syrup. They’re like pleases and thank yous and good afternoons, something you say at the tail end of a goodbye, something nice you say and don’t mean. Nell closes his eyes.

 

“I love you, mama.”

“I love you, too, girlie.”

 

**1933**

 

 _“I wanna try something,”_ Steve had said. _“Wanna try something with you.”_

 _“I want you to tell me if you don’t like it okay?”_ He’d made Nell promise him. _“I want you to tell me if you ain’t want it.”_

Steve’s hand rests on the fabric of Nell’s knee, fingertips skimming under his skirt hem. Nell’s paralyzed. Steves kissing him and his eyes are closed and his hands moving up Nell’s leg and Nell wants to die. Nell’s eyes are so wide they hurt. Steve’s little cold fingers give him goosebumps in dark places he doesn’t wanna think about. It’s so much. It’s so much all at once.

“This okay, Nelly? This okay?” Steve’s lips are red-hot and sticky with Nell’s lipstick. Nell doesn’t know if it’s okay.

“Uh,” Nell says, and Steve takes it as a yes. His hand is on Nell’s leg. His hand on Nell’s leg, his hand in Nell’s hair, his mouth on Nell’s mouth. He’s getting more confident now, reaching up under the curve of Nell’s inner thigh to where his pantyhose pill embarrassingly with lint, to where the lining of his plain white underwear starts. Nell wants to say something. Nell wants to say no. Nell wants to say yes. Nell wants to say _maybe later_ , he wants to say _I got a headache, Stevie, sorry_ , he wants to say _stop it,_ he wants to say _take me,_ he wants to know what he wants. Nell wants to say something. _Say something._ _Say something, Nell. Anything._  

Steve climbs higher still, his fingertips reaching and reaching and finally making contact with the damp fabric, brushing the wetness there, ticklish and teasing and insubstantial. Steve lets out a shaky exhale like he’s having a religious experience, like Nell’s a holy woman. Like what’s between his thighs is sacred. It ain’t feel all that sacred to Nell. He’s trembling. He feels weird. He feels wrong.

Nell can’t even feel it. He just feels gray and washed out and frozen. Nell stares at the way Steve’s belt’s tongue bobbles, the way his shirt is untucked and the cracks in the ceiling, the gold of Steve’s hair, the bright look in his eye, the flushed skin of his face. Nell looks away as Steve’s moves his fingers over the pubic bone jutting out from Nell’s body, looking for something that makes Nell feel electric. Not good-electric that’s like anticipation, like tension. What Steve finds makes him jolt and swallow his breath, like a punch to the gut. Is this how it’s supposed to be? Is Nell not doing it right? Is Nell bad at this, too?

Steve's fingers press more insistently on that place over his bones that makes Nell wanna rut against his hand and scurry away from him at the same time. He twitches once, twice, hovering on the edge of uncertainty. Does he want it? Does he want Steve to...to do that? Do what boys and girls are built for? He doesn’t know. He doesn’t know what he wants. He can’t speak. He can’t do anything but shiver and let Steve kiss him and pet his other hand through his hair. He’s letting it happen. Letting Steve comb through it till all his bobby pins fall out, dropping his hair around his shoulders in a thick curtain, he’s letting Steve crawl between his legs, he’s letting Steve push him back onto the mattress, pose him like a mannequin, like a rag doll. Does he want it? Does he want this? He’s wet. That means he wants it. He feels sick to his stomach as Steve rucks his skirt up, letting it pool on the dip of his broad hips. They can see his panties through his tights. This is wrong. This is bad. Nell doesn’t like it. Nell doesn’t like this.

Steve’s shoulders are under his bent knees, looking up at Nell with his fingers still pressing through his underwear. Isn’t this what bodies are for? To feel? To feel wrong? Steve’s looking up at him, his blond head peeking between his rigid thighs, eager, reckless, glowing.

Steve asks again if he’s okay. Nell can’t speak. His windpipe is closed up like he’s about to cry. Nell lies paralyzed on Steve’s bed, looking down at him, Steve’s fingers hooked on the top of his little panties. He asked him a question. _Speak up, Nelly. Speak now or forever hold your piece._

Nell meets him in the middle, shaking his head weakly, _No, please._ Nell is not okay. Slowly, deliberately, with measured grace, Nell closes his legs and numbly rolls onto his side, not looking at Steve. After a long, heavy silence, Steve flops back onto the mattress too. Nell’s face burns with cold, stale sweat and shame.

Steve’s hand is back, gently smoothing Nell’s skirt back into place. When Steve touches Nell’s shoulder, he doesn’t flinch or cringe away, he just...lies there and lets Steve pull him back into his chest and hold him. Nell flushes deeper at the tears trying to crawl up his throat, and Steve’s gonna see them, gonna see Nell cry like he hasn’t since they were little kids. It’s so much. It’s so much all at once. Nell wishes Steve would stop touching him. Nell wishes he was alone. He sniffles quietly and the arms around him tighten. He’s still shaking.

He wants to throw Steve off him and run back home and hide under his bed. He wants to run away to the moon and never come back, even if Steve asked him nice. He doesn’t care about the puddles that’d soak his stocking feet or the things men scream at him from their cars, he doesn’t care about the arms around his middle and the breath on the back of his neck, he doesn’t care. Nell’s frozen, waiting. For what? What’s he waiting for? Waiting for Steve to violate him? Waiting for the moment to end? Waiting for forgiveness? Waiting for redemption? Nell waits. Unbreathing, unblinking, he waits. Steve kisses his top vertebrae lightly, guilt in every line of his body. He’s sorry. Nell knows he’s sorry. Nell doesn’t know if that makes it better.

They don’t talk about it afterward, like everything in their life, they don’t talk about it. And when Steve just gives him this big wet-eyed look that makes Nell wanna turn and run away, Nell knows he has to forgive him even if he doesn’t wanna. It’s so much. It’s so much and they don’t talk about it. They don’t talk about things like this, they just bleed in the silence after the other one leaves. Nell wishes he wasn’t crying in front of Steve. Nell wishes he was alone.

“I’m sorry, Nelly,” Steve says, finally, singularly, like a brush off the surface of what he really meant to say.

“I ain’t mad. S’okay, Stevie,” Nell hiccups. “I forgive you.”

 

\--

 

Nell’s head is ringing. Nell’s head is ringing and his eyebrow is dripping red and his lip is split and his mother is in his face saying _Sorry, sorry, sorry, girlie, I ain’t mean it, I ain’t mean to. Don’t cry, baby, I love you. I love you._ She loves him. She’s holding him against her chest, his cheek flush with her shoulder. Her hair smells sour, like booze and sweat and tobacco.

Nell head’s floating up towards the cracked plaster ceiling, crawling into one of them like a bug, like a roach. She loves him, she loves him so much. She loves him so much that she has to hurt him to make herself better again. His mother’s shoulders are shaking and crying on him but he can’t feel it. He can’t feel it. He can’t feel her pain move him.

She tells him she won’t do it again, that she’s sorry, that she didn’t mean it. She’s crying all over him and clutching him in her bony, sharp hands so hard it hurts a little. Nell looks down. Huh.

Bloody knuckles.

She grabs him and weeps and rocks them back and forth on the kitchen floor and Nell wishes he was dead. She says she won't do it again and they both know that she’s lying. She’ll do it again and again until the bottomless river of her grief runs dry, until hell freezes over, until things are the same as before, until she gets over losing his dad.

Nell’s floating up to heaven, staring at the white-milk moon, crawling through the cracks, trying to get away. She says she won’t do it again and Nell closes his eyes and tries to believe her. It’s easier this way. It's easier to let it happen, let her hurt him and then leave him to pick up the pieces once she's finished. He closes his eyes and tries to stop fighting, tries to let the waves of her salty tears wash him away.

She says she won’t do it again and Nell’s bruises throb like his seizing heart. She says she won’t a hundred thousand times and lets him down a hundred thousand more. His mother knows how to reach inside his chest and rip him up inside, and Nell lets her every time. He hates her so much and he loves her even more.

“I’m sorry, baby,” Her whisper smells like gin.

“It’s okay, mama,” Nell croaks. His mouth tastes like rust. “I ain’t mad. S’okay. Forgive you.”

 

**1934**

 

One morning, Nell goes for a walk.

It’s that time after dawn breaks, but before morning really starts, that little sweet spot when everything is blue and young and sleepy. That's where Nell walks. That’s where Nell lives.

He’s got the clothes on. He’s walking around in the street with his daddy’s old tie slung ‘round his neck, with the big shoes that scuff when he walks, with the button-up he used to wear to work. Blue collar. Blue skies. Letting the sun rise on his face, clean and pale-lipped and trembling.  

The only people out this early are working men and women on their commute. Nobody knows him here. Nobody knows Nell Barnes. Nobody knows the kid who walks around with his cap down in the too-big clothes, either, so Nell’s free to do what he wants. These mornings, these perfect, cool summer mornings, Nell feels free. He shivers with it, no matter how many men’s jackets he puts on, God, the fear, the freedom of it all makes him shake. It’s like falling, like the Cyclone, like jumping off a cliff every day before breakfast, it’s terrifying, it’s dizzy, it’s _exhilarating_. Nell feels awake. For the first time in years, Nell isn’t asleep. Nell is _alive!_ Nell is _afraid!_ Nell is _his own!_

Is he Steve’s, too? Could he be both? Can he possess himself yet still be loved? Could he? That’s too much good for one person, it seems. Give and take, right? Don’t you gotta hurt for it to be worth it? Doesn’t it have to hurt?

Nell always knew he’s...he’s not a forever kinda girl, anyway. He burns too hot, too fast, then shorts out, cold, empty. Used. Guess it’s time for Steve to learn that. Guess it’s time for some give and take. And Nell’s so goddamn tired of giving.

But it’s funny, almost, might even make him laugh. ‘Cause in the end it’s always Nell and Steve, huh? Nell kneeling at Steve’s feet. Nell hurting himself again and again and again, stepping on his own glass heart ‘till it turns to sand, his body to ash, his blood to wine. And Steve’s gulping Nell down like it’s communion.

Nell can see it all, so clearly, the endless path he walks, the vultures that circle overhead, the cracked dirt that lays still and indifferent under his feet. The Earth doesn’t breathe for him, anymore. The Earth is dead. The Earth is asleep, it’s asleep and Nell wants so badly to wake it up. He looks down at his hands, the blue veins winding around under the skin like worms, his bruised knuckles, his long, uncertain fingers. They’re his hands. They’re men’s hands.

Nell wants to take, Nell wants to burn hot and warm and forever like a gas-lit flame, like a second sun. He wants to be Steve’s big bad wolf licking his chops, he wants sharp teeth and a bristled back, he wants to rip himself to pieces, he wants to huff and puff and blow the whole world down. Look at me, little boy, I am sick. Look at me, I am wrong. I am sick and I am wrong I am mine and I have hurt so, so long. So long. Look at me and see that I am not yours, I am my own. I am my own. I am my own. I’m not yours anymore, I’m mine. And that hurts so, so much.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> We're eating good in the next chapter just you wait!!!


	12. Chapter 12

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Nell has something to say.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is it, girls and gays! What we've all been waiting for!

 

 

They’re laying on Sarah Roger’s pull-out, facing each other. Supine, like lovers, like two halves of a whole. They’ve got ivy flowers winding around their ankles, ivy flowers and brambles and ferns grow like a cage around their drowsy bodies. Steve’s affection flows like wine. Nell’s heart beats with the thunder overhead.

Nell thinks about where all this began. Steve hovering over him, long hair bleached white by the dawn, Steve glowing with tears and love and pride and fear, Steve letting himself free-fall into Nell’s life. Steve with his newspaper stories and his special words. _Boy._ _Transvestite._ _Wrong._ Funny words, words that made Nell’s stomach twitch. It makes sense, kinda. Everything ending where it began.

Tonight. Tonight, _the_ night. Tonight, Steve’s hair is dark silk spread out on the pillow, his eyes closed but not sleeping, just resting, just perfect.

It’s dark outside. Been raining all week, terrible, lashing storms beating on the windows, ripping the shingles off roofs, screaming to be let in. The clouds are like deep, black bruise whipped with lightning, with wind, drunk with rain and big curls of thunder that shake the dust out of the city. Might be the worst storm of the summer, even. Nell likes the rain, most days. He likes how it drowns everything out. How it washes everything away.

“I love you. Y’know that, Nelly?” Steve whispers, his eyes closed, his little cold hand clutching Nell’s. Steve’s so coarse around them mean neighbor boys. He’s so rough and tumble but he’s letting his best girl see his soft side. So sweet. He’s so sweet to him.

Nell murmurs gently in response, pressing a dry kiss to the back of Steve’s hand, who scrunches up his nose and smiles like it’s a secret. Nell loves him. Nell is loved. Nell has warm tears in his eyes. He isn’t ready for it to end, he’s not ready. This isn’t fair to Steve. This isn’t fair.

Nell’s blood is hot and acrid like rubber burning. Sizzle-pop hot, like lightning on a nervous summer night. His mouth tastes like copper, like Steve, like salt and blood and three sour years of shame. His hands are trembling. He feels so small.

At that moment, Nell is drowned.

Nell remembers training wheels and training bras and baby-girl pink. He remembers his first kiss, his first grade classroom, he remembers the first time he shaved his legs, too young, too eager to grow up. His mother showed him how. He remembers the black dress he wore at his father’s funeral, all the loss and grief and little-girl guilt mixed up inside his head. He remembers how his mama used to sing to him when he was young and whole and afraid and the world was so very big.

He remembers girlhood like a fever dream, polarized by smears of light and dark and pain and fear. He remembers blood dripping from his nose, he remembers his mother’s red, snarling face, he remembers things he doesn’t want to think about. He remembers the first time he got his menses, a box of tampons thrown at him with a _figure it out, girly,_ he remembers unparalleled mortification and tears. Nell remembers blood. Blood and salt and pain and girlhood.

Nell remembers a hell of a lot. Like your life flashing before you die. Maybe this is a death of its own, in a way. Nell feels his bones rot.

“I--” He starts, unsure of where he’s gonna end up. “I wanna tell you something.”

Steve hums and nods and keeps his eyes closed. Gentle. Peaceful. A pool of water undisturbed. Nell’s a petal rippling the surface, ruining his perfect stillness. Ruining it. Ruining Steve. Ruining them.  

What would he say, even? What if after he says it, it goes away? How do you take something like that back? Nell’s throat closes up just thinkin’ about it, shame burning in him like poison. He can’t just...just _say that._ It’s hard to even think it most days. Nell’s not a...a _transvestite,_ Nell’s just Nell. Nell’s all he’s ever been. And it’s scary to think about, all that change tangled up in one little word.

_Steve, I’m different._

_Steve, I’m hurtin’ real bad and I don’t know how to fix it._

_Steve._

_Steve, I’m the same as you._

_I’m the same as you._

_We’re the same._

_Steve, I’m the same._

_Steve, I’m a transvestite._

_I’m a man. I’m a boy. I’m the same._

Nell overlaps their fingers. Their palms kiss. He closes his eyes too. Like they’re dreaming together, like this is all a dream, like he’ll wake up one of these mornings and it’ll all be over, blown away by the storm. Nell runs away behind his eyelids like a child.

Maybe he shouldn’t go through with this.

Maybe identity’s a dug grave, a fool’s errand, a death sentence, maybe tonight’s goodnight kiss was really just a funeral procession. Nell’s already dead, the rawbone water of decay bloating him up inside like a corpse, Nell’s sweating queasily like rotten fruit on the windowsill. Rigor mortis. A crypt, a tomb, a cemetery plot with _Helen Grace Barnes_ carved deep into the headstone.

“I’m--”

His throat is thick and stinging, already so worked up over one little word. His eyes are burning and his nose is full of snot and he’s probably the ugliest thing in the world right now, but Steve reaches out for him anyway, pulling him into a skinny-armed hug. Nell stays frozen, gripping his nightgown hem tight, his fists white, bloodless and painful, all the thoughts up in his head and making him dizzy. How can he say it? How can he say something like this? He slowly leans his head under Steve’s chin and takes a wet breath. How do you fit this much meaning in one sentence?

“Oh! I-- Oh, Nelly, don’t cry,” Steve coos, arms around Nell. He’s everywhere. “Don’t cry, sweetheart.”

Nell isn’t crying. Nell isn’t crying this time. He’s got tears in his eyes but he ain’t let any fall. He can’t cry. He can’t cry over this anymore. Nell’s cried rivers, Nell’s cried oceans, he’s cried like the rain, till his eyes were cracked and dry and raw, he’s cried till he can’t cry no more. His breathing deepens, slowing.

Nell feels words rush up in his throat like vomit and he knows he’s gonna do it. He’s gonna say it. He’s gonna say it and it’ll be all over, it’ll be all over and all that love Steve’s got has been for nothing. It’s time. He’s waited so long. It’s time.

“I’m like you,” Nell whispers, feeling unreal. His voice is quiet, resigned, clear like the watery April sun. He hopes and begs and prays to God that Steve understands what he means. That he won’t make him say it out loud. “I’m like you, Steve.”

“In love?” Steve asks, his head cocked, an uncertain smile on his lips.

“No,” Nell answers, shutting his eyes again. He can feel the lines forming between his eyebrows. “I mean-- yes, sure, I love you, but that’s not...that’s not what I’m talking about.”

“Oh. Ah, okay,” Steve sounds nervous. Nell can feel Steve’s eyes burn into his head even though his eyes are shut. He can feel it. He can feel him looking at him. He can feel that Steve knows what’s gonna happen.

Nell sees a future. A dress of white lace and petticoats, Steve in black. No family in the crowd, only new friends and old memories, kids running around, Nell sees crinoline skirts and bubblegum lace, flowers and happy tears and special words like _I do,_ Nell sees what every little girl is taught to dream of, what every little girl is told to wait for.

Nell sees it from far away, a spectator in the crowd. He sees his hair in flowers, Steve’s combed back, gold and shining, all their blood dried, all their bruises healed. Nell watches a new family tree grow from the stump of their old lives. Nell sees baby names and motherhood, Nell sees love and light and youth faded, he sees a small hand in his, their hands pale-veined and withered, wrapped with a gold band that tells the world _forever._

Nell watches himself eclipsed with old age, hand in hand with Steve, golden earth and red skies. He watches their cracked lips melt into twin smiles. Nell watches it all fade and smear and die.

“I’m...” Nell starts, pressing his fingers against his own sternum. His eyes are closed and wet with tears that he won’t let fall. Fabric, soft and well-worn under his fingertips. “...like...” His fingers connect with the buttons of Steve’s nightgown, right over the heart. “...you.”

The room is so still. Neither of them breathes, the silence only interrupted by the rustle of sheets as a cold hand finds Nell’s warm, long fingers. Steve holds their clasped hands to his chest like a prayer, letting Nell’s fingers dig in right to the bone. Nell feels Steve’s heartbeat beneath the clothes, beneath skin and muscle and nerves. It’s so fast. It’s so much.

Nell’s frozen, stuck, stone-still. He’s made of pearly marble, rusty wrought iron, he’s brittle glass. The silence splits Nell’s head open, buzzing and hot like a blood-flushed bruise, an infected cut, a salted wound. It hurts so much.

“You joking?” Steve’s voice is small, breathy, shaking. Nell’s eyes reluctantly open, Steve’s blank glare glued to the blankets. “You playin' a joke on me right now? ‘Cause that ain’t...that ain’t funny, Nelly.”

Nell pauses. Composed yet completely still, letting the words wash over him, giving himself time for the rush of shame soak in.

 _Are you joking?_ Steve’s staring at him incredulously, searchingly, his eyes wide and round and afraid.

 _Are you joking?_ Nell can’t look away. He lets Steve see him. He doesn’t hide, he lets Steve see it play over his face--all the pain. All the wrong. He lets Steve see it. Nell allows Steve to see him as he is.

 _Are you joking?_ Steve’s face is twisted up, confused, shocked, digesting. Nell looks down.

_Are you joking? You playing a joke on me right now? Are you kidding? Is this a joke? Are you a joke? Are you the punchline?_

“Not joking,” Nell breathes, wishing he was. His shoulders are tight, flinched back like he’s expecting Steve to hit him. “I ain’t joking, Steve, not this time.”

Nell’s shoulders are tight, waiting for Steve to push him out in the rain, make it bleed, make it hurt. Nell waits. He holds his breath and waits for it to be over. Like passing rain. Like a summer storm.

The room is quiet for a long, long time.

Steve takes a quiet, rattling breath and curls his little arms around Nell once more. They’re both shaking. Nell doesn’t move. The clock in the kitchen's ticks feels like a third heartbeat in the room with them. Like the moment itself is alive.

“Okay,” Steve finally says, his words still thin, uncertain, coltish. Like he doesn't quite believe himself yet. “That’s okay. It’s okay.”

Nell frowns. “What?”

“I said...I said that it’s...it’s okay,” Steve whispers, his voice becoming firmer. “It’s gonna be okay.”

“I--? What…? What are you doing?”

“Telling you that it’s okay. It’s okay that you’re like me.”

Nell feels a fire in him, angry, buzzing, waspish. “What are you doing, Steve?” He pushes away, leaving Steve bereft and confused. “What are you doing right now?”

“Ne--?”

“No. Shut up. What do you mean, it’s okay?” Nell feels years of bitten tongues and swallowed words and sick stomachs rush up behind his teeth, raring to escape. Nell’s head splits open on Sarah Roger’s futon, spilling all over the threadbare sheets, Nell’s vision swims ‘till all he can see is gray blankets and Steve’s hair reflecting like silver in the gray storm-light. Nell’s breaking. Nell’s coming apart at the seams. It’s okay. _It’s okay._ What does that even mean?

Hope and frustration and relief. Hope and frustration and relief and confused, angry tears bubbling up in his head. Nell shoves up onto his palms, staring down at Steve’s stunned, stubborn face.

“Wh--?”

“I’m _sayin’_ it’s okay,” Steve hisses, his glare cutting over to the room where his mother sleeps. “It’s _okay_ that you’re a-- that you’re like me. Now pipe down ‘fore you wake my ma.”

 _No, it’s not,_ Says Nell’s sour head. _No, it’s not okay that I’m like you. Nothing about this is okay. Nothing about me is okay._

 _Please say it again,_ Says the singing light in Nell’s chest. _Please tell me it’s okay. Tell me you love me still. Please._

“We’ll...we’ll figure it out,” Steve whispers, his gaze firm and strange and fiercely hopeful. He holds Nell’s chin between his thumb and index. “We can handle this. We can...we can figure it out together. Everything’s gonna be okay, Nelly,” His pink mouth wrapped around a smile. There are strange, beautiful tears in those proud, tough-boy eyes. He shines like a god. He looks like a leader. “Everything’s gonna be okay.”

Nell crumbles. He curls against Steve’s chest in a tight ball, the crown of his head brushes the underside of Steve’s ribs, the tip of Nell’s nose pressed to his own knees. He closes his eyes and doesn’t think. He closes his eyes and lets Steve in.

“Thank you, Steve.” Nell can’t see Steve’s smile, but he can feel it warm the room, warm the silence.

“What was it you said last time?” Steve asks with a fond grin. “‘I’m with you till the end of the line,’ right?” His arms tighten. “S’true. Same for me. With you till the end of the line. I liked that, y’know.”

Nell’s heart beats so fast as he turns his face to look Steve in the eye. He’s so good. So beautiful. So righteous. And he’s all Nell’s for the taking, for the giving, for the loving. Nell hasn’t felt this light in years. He _shakes_ with love.

His Steve, all compassion and red lips and blue eyes and white-shining blond hair and that coffee-warm look in his eyes. Love. Love wets Nell’s eyes and chokes Nell’s throat and warms him up inside. Love kisses his lips and love cradles him in its arms and love’s fingers run through his long hair. Love is a tidal wave, love is a beaten shore, love is a bird’s wings catching a Brooklyn wind. Love is a wiry street rat running through the cracks in the city, love is grit and force and grime, it’s peace and sleeping breath and a pair of tired, cornflower-blue eyes. Love is two boys on a moth-eaten futon. Love is them. Love is them, it’s them, it’s always been them.

Nell smiles with sticky tears on his cheeks and leans in, chasing that love.

And Steve pulls away.

Steve pulls away.

Steve pulls away.

Steve pulls away from his love, his embrace, his end of a half-broken promise. Steve pulls away from a kiss that would’ve been their first without the film of rouge and falsehood. Steve pulls away from him. Steve pulls away from Nell with a pale, concerned look on his face, his eyes twitching all around the room, he pulls away with a look that speaks of foregone conclusions. Of confusion. A look that speaks the words: ‘ _Of course not.’_

The way Steve spoke after Nell told him...like he...like there was a chance Nell might not be alone in his desire. Like there was a spark, like there was something in the ash worth sifting through. The bewildered look on Steve's face suggests he'd never even given it a passing thought. It figures. Steve's always...always been the decent one between the two of them.

Because that’s what does it, right? The label. The label. The label of two boys who could kiss and make love and hold each other afterward. The label that makes them even more wrong than they already are, that sinks their two damned souls lower into Hell. Nell's heart beats with a love for Steve that feels so right it kills him.

Steve’s shoulders are rigid and tight. He’s looking at Nell like he’s a stranger in his home. Nell doesn’t know what to say. The air is so still. Steve’s eyes are so wide.

“I’m gonna go get some air,” He hears himself say distantly.

Nell can see himself rise from the mattress and push through his bag ‘till he finds a carton of smokes and a waterproof tin of matches, he can feel the stairs creak under his feet as he makes his way to the little dirt courtyard out back. He can see himself move, he can feel the heat behind his eyes, the lump in his throat, but it’s not him it’s happening to. Nell’s somewhere else. Nell drifts.

The spark of his light, the cherry of his cigarette burns in his eyes like gold. Like gold, like a halo. It makes his head spin.

It’s quiet. Everyone’s sleeping or eating or fighting or fucking or drinking everything away, all the little people, all the little bright splashes in the windows of the city, all the little flares in the dark. All the stories unfolding behind closed doors. Nell wishes he knew all of them.

The courtyard’s thick with mud and slippery. The women have taken the laundry down from the clotheslines in anticipation of the rain, leaving the wires skeletal and black and empty. Nell sits with socked feet on a leaky thick-beamed back porch and holds his skull in his two hands.

He aches. He aches like two dead eyes in a rotted-out head, like a severed limb, like a hickey you feel dirty for even after it’s faded. The sky splits under a crack of lightning. Nell flinches and thinks of his mother.

Freedom. Freedom’s on his tongue and it tastes like a Strike and a broken heart.

Nell sits with his head in his hands and a cigarette between his lips and watches the rainfall. All that pain and all that relief and all those tear-stained nights lap at his feet like the choppy, beat-up puddles in the yard. Far away. Removed. A memory.

Nell closes his eyes and feels it. Embraces it. Feels the red tip of his cigarette, the people in their homes, the betrayed look on Steve's face, the tenderness of his wounds, the boy he’s in love with asleep upstairs. There's fear and anger and release and relief pouring down on them, washing over the thin roof. He closes his eyes and lets all of it surge up into his chest, holding it in and then breathing it out in a cloud of smoke. Letting it float away. Blowing it out into the lightning-streaked sky like a breath of wind.

It sticks in his lungs, still there, but lesser somehow. Maybe it’ll be there forever, just a fuzz of background noise. Nell breathes.

Letting it go, letting it go, letting it go. 

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> More goodies to come in later chapters trust me ;-)  
> Also I'm apologizing for Steve, he wanted to kiss Bucky but that lil boy got internalized homophobia.


	13. Chapter 13

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I've been working on a lot of other projects and also being lazy on sumer vacation. Sorry 4 blowing off my sons, guys :+(

 

 

Nell sits out on that rickety porch for a long long time. 

Eventually, he stamps out the end of his cigarette and crawls back upstairs. Steve sleeps with his eyes facing the wall and the blanket drawn up around his stiff shoulders and Nell’s eyes on his narrow back. 

They lay like that, unspoken words sprawled in the silent, uncomfortable distance in the sheets between them, their backs turned on one another.

 

\--

 

There’s a poster on the brick behind Steve’s place: washed out, peeling, faded. Another one in the alley behind the candy store, most plastered on the front shelves of the new legal-liquor joints in town, some gathered in the cabinets at Nell’s house. 

Prohibition ended last winter and Nell’s seen adverts for alcohol everywhere. It’s all just booze, booze, booze, these days, everywhere he goes. It used to be a sorta seedy word to  _ say,  _ even, something impolite, now it’s painted 40 feet high on every street corner in his neighborhood. It feels strange. 

Nell thinks of the poster behind Steve’s subdivision. Greyscale. Stark black print against white, unfurled over a dark bottle of expensive whiskey. The epitome of luxury to a kid with nothing a penny in his palm and the empty taste of hunger in his mouth. It makes Nell stare. The mark of change. The turning of a new leaf. Liquor. Change. Luxury. 

 

_ James Buchanan & co.  _ It reads. _ Scotch Whisky. _

 

\--

 

Steve’s hair and shoulders catch strips of light as they walk from alley to alley, dirt to dust to pavement and back again. Green things sprout everywhere they can, spilling out over the sidewalk and sprouting bright-petaled flowers on every corner.

Nell slouches in a long brown skirt and his dad’s jacket, the cloth is damp and heavy where it touches his skin, warmed by the humid summer air. Steve’s breezy white button-up is so big it blows in the wind like a sail. His chest is flat and his slacks are cuffed and he’s everything Nell wants to be. He’s everything Nell wants.

Steve asks what he should call him, now that everything’s changed.

 

“James,” He finds himself saying. “James Buchanan,” 

  
  


“James, huh?” Steve tastes the name in his mouth, a smile bubbling up to his lips. Bucky feels the name resonate real deep in his chest, feels it like a shot, like a spark, like a match lit inside him. It’s so sweet, it’s so sweet that it _ burns _ . Steve’s still looking at the dirt. “Proper, ain’t it?” 

 

\--

 

The August of ‘34 is hot and sticky and suffocating and it’s the first time Bucky’s ever taken a breath. 

His dad’s clothes fit better with the help of Steve’s clumsy tailoring, still too much room in the shoulders and not enough in the hips. They stuff the shoulders with rolled cotton and celebrate with a couple shots they nicked from the corner store. Bottles of James Buchanan, ironically. 

At first, Bucky balks: perturbed, eyeing his warped reflection in the bottle. They both seen what liquor can do to good families, to good homes, to good people. But then Steve looks at him with these liquor-warm eyes and says  _ try it, Buck, _ and Bucky folds like a house of cards.

It stings on the way down, hot and cold and familiar and terrible. He thinks of his mother and hates it every second of it. 

A shot and a half in and Steve’s _ loose, _ the little featherweight. He’s leaning up against Bucky, blushing, the heat of him bleeding through the fabric and into his skin. Bucky, sober, tries hard to breathe steady as Steve fiddles with the screw-cap of the bottle.

“Y’know I’m sorry. ‘Bout that night.” His voice is smudged against the shoulder seam of Bucky’s shirt.

A breath. A beat. 

“I know.”

“Okay,” Steve says all quiet. “That’s good, Buck. Just wanna...jus’ wannit to be okay.”

Bucky smiles at the fondness of it all. Nickname of a nickname, just like before. 

Maybe things ain’t as changed as he thought. 

 

\---

 

August mends his clothes and October cuts his hair with gentle hands and sharp, boyish words.    


“Goddamnit, Bucky, hold steady, you big lunk,” Steve’s voice cuts. The left side of Bucky’s hair is chopped up into shaggy, ear-length pieces that fall over his ears. Steve says it looks real smart. Bucky cracks a grin and says he looks like a vagrant.   


_ “You  _ hold steady, big man, nearly cuttin’ me with them things, you little blond basta--OW! Shitting hell!”    


“Sorry, sorry! Doin’ the best I can!” Steve gets back to trimming the sides.   


Steve looks at him different nowadays. Bucky feels different, too, so he guesses it should be expected that they’ve changed too, after all. Still stings a little bit every time they look at each other. Still glows every time Steve says his name.   


He watches himself be sheared like a sheep--floating, buzzed, smiling and full-hearted. Bucky thinks he recognizes someone hiding there within his reflection, someone strange and new and old all at once. Someone he knows yet he’s barely been introduced to, someone forgotten and someone found.    


Bucky watches, thinking of the little boy he met in his mother’s vanity that night all those summers ago, watching the muddy, blurry lines clear, watching his own face reflected back at him. He watches, thinking of the time Steve’s own blond curls floated to the floor like autumn leaves. 

Bucky watches the mirror. Watches himself.   
  


 

\---

 

November is a slammed door, a cold gasp of air against his neck, November is a gust of bitter reality that lifts his suit jacket. 

Bucky doesn’t need to say anything to Steve as he stomps down the fire escape with a hastily-packed suitcase in hand and his cheek flushed with a fresh, angry bruise. Bucky doesn’t need to answer Steve when he asks  _ How’d it go, Buck?  _ Bucky doesn’t need to say it. It’s clear as day, hot as the fires of hell, burning in his stinging eyes. Bucky doesn’t need to tell Steve how much it aches _. _

_ Stay with me and my mama, please, Bucky. Just for a coupl’a months. _

November. November curls it’s hand around Bucky’s throat and  _ squeezes. _

_ Please, just until you get back on your feet. Stay with me.  _

_ Stay with me. _

 

_ \--- _

 

Sarah Rogers is a kind woman. God-fearing. Straw-blonde like her son and twice as stubborn. She’s smart and sharp-eyed, Irish down to the bone. She’s a good person. She’s strong. 

Mrs.Rogers has been beaten by the world, by her good-for-nothing husband, by life. She’s fair and tough and dignified and Catholic-strict, with a gentle, open heart, and Bucky finds himself feeling safe around her, strange as that may seem. She’s nice. 

Queerly enough, she doesn’t mind him as much as he thought she would. When she learned that his mother was the same type of belligerent, violent drunk that Steve’s father was, whatever apprehension she had about Bucky’s clothes dissolved. She welcomed him into their home with warm, calloused hands and a tight hug.

Doesn’t mean she likes him all that much, but she’s nice and Christian about it. She prays for the forgiveness of his sins in the privacy of her bedroom and throws him concerned, sympathetic looks from across the room, but she still gives him a couple meals a day and a place to sleep. She mends the seams Steve missed the first time. 

She’s not perfect, a little too rigid and just a little bent around the edges, but he feels something inside him warm when she fusses over the two of them, something that’s been broken for as long as he can remember. 

Bucky finds he likes her very much, in fact. 

 

**1935**

 

That January, Bucky snags a job unloading trucks and a room at the YMCA a couple months later. He’s living on the razor’s of eighteen and he’s never been better at lying through his grinning teeth. 

Nobody knows his old name. Nobody knows the old him. Nobody thinks twice when they call him sir. Nobody thinks twice when they see him smile ear-to-ear whenever he hears it.

Bucky goes over to the Rogers’ for dinner on Sundays and leaves with enough leftovers to feed him for the next week if he stretches it out enough. 

He wolfs down the fat trimmings and scraps and bread-heels of life and loves every second of it. 

He is free. He is his own. 

 

\---

 

He still misses his mother, sometimes.

Watching Mrs.Rogers place a loving palm on the center of Steve’s back, Bucky feels melancholy sink in his stomach. He feels it burn like shame and sting like regret.  He misses her, the version of her when she was sober or asleep or when he was out of the house. Maybe he really just misses the idea of her, not the reality. He doesn’t know. Maybe he’s a bad son. Or a bad daughter. Whichever comes first. Maybe he deserves it. 

He bites his tongue.

Bucky lies awake in the middle of the night, letting tears drip off the end of his nose. He doesn’t know if it’ll ever go away, what she did to him, and some twisted, strangled part of him doesn’t want it to leave. He wants her to stay.

He still jolts a little every time he crosses the path of stale gin. His hands shake and he digs the heels of his hands into his ears every time he hears someone fighting in another room. Takes forever for the adrenaline to wear off after a dream of his mother finding his boy-shoebox under the bed. He can’t stand the way Steve just  _ sighs  _ sometimes, without meaning or direction. Always makes his stomach curdle with fear.

He feels so sick.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Babes. We're MOVING ALONG dudes, I'm so excited! I have a story planned out that's canon compliant and runs up until Infinity War--though obviously deviating from the more...upsetting...aspects of the movie. Angst with a happy ending, remember? :)   
> Steve and Bucky will be okay! Praise the sun!!

**Author's Note:**

> i wrote this partly as a reaction to all the fics that constantly disrespect and misgender their trans subjects but mostly because I Love Trans Steve And Bucky So Much And They Are So Good And So Gay. :)
> 
> anyways thanks for reading babes love you see you next chapter.


End file.
